PETER  AND  WENDY 
MARGARET  OGILVY 


PETER   FLEW  IN 


PETER  AND  WENDY 


MARGARET  OGILVY 


BY 
J.  M.  BARRIE 


ILLUSTRATED  BT 

F.  D.  BEDFORD 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S   SONS 
1912 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

COPYRIGHT,  1911,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

COPYRIGHT,  1896,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


CONTENTS 

PETER  AND  WENDY: 

CHAPTER  l-v  ;:: 

I  PETER  BREAKS  THROUGH 1 

II  THE  SHADOW 14 

III  COME  AWAY,  COME  AWAY! 28 

IV  THE  FLIGHT 48 

V  THE  ISLAND  COME  TRUE 62 

VI  THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 78 

VII  THE  HOME  UNDER  THE  GROUND  ....  91 

VIII  THE  MERMAIDS'  LAGOON 101 

IX  THE  NEVER  BIRD 119 

X  THE  HAPPY  HOME 124 

XI  WENDY'S  STORY 134 

XII  THE  CHILDREN  ARE  CARRIED  OFF    .     .    .  146 

XIII  Do  You  BELIEVE  IN  FAIRIES?      ....  153 

XIV  THE  PIRATE  SHIP 166 

XV  " HOOK  OR  ME  THIS  TIME" 177 

XVI  THE  RETURN  HOME 192 

XVII  WHEN  WENDY  GREW  UP                             .  205 


MARGARET  OGILVY   .  .221 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

FROM  DRAWINGS  BY  F.  D.  BEDFORD 

PETER  AND  WENDY 
Peter  flew  in Frontispiece 


PACING 
PAGE 


The  birds  were  flown 46 

The  Never  Never  Land 54 

Peter  on  guard ,.     ....     88 

Wendy's  story 134 

"This  man  is  mine" 188 

Peter  and  Jane 216 


MARGARET  OGILVY 225 


Vll 


PETER  AND  WENDY 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

CHAPTER  I 

PETER  BREAKS  THROUGH 

A  LL  children,  except  one,  grow  up.  They  soon 
JT\.  know  that  they  will  grow  up,  and  the  way 
Wendy  knew  was  this.  One  day  when  she  was 
two  years  old  she  was  playing  in  a  garden,  and 
she  plucked  another  flower  and  ran  with  it  to  her 
mother.  I  suppose  she  must  have  looked  rather 
delightful,  for  Mrs.  Darling  put  her  hand  to  her 
heart  and  cried,  "Oh,  why  can't  you  remain  like 
this  for  ever !"  This  was  all  that  passed  between 
them  on  the  subject,  but  henceforth  Wendy  knew 
that  she  must  grow  up.  You  always  know  after 
you  are  two.  Two  is  the  beginning  of  the  end. 

Of  course  they  lived  at  14,  and  until  Wendy 
came  her  mother  was  the  chief  one.  She  was  a 
lovely  lady,  with  a  romantic  mind  and  such  a 
sweet  mocking  mouth.  Her  romantic  mind  was 

1 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

like  the  tiny  boxes,  one  within  the  other,  that 
come  from  the  puzzling  East,  however  many  you 
discover  there  is  always  one  more;  and  her  sweet 
mocking  mouth  had  one  kiss  on  it  that  Wendy 
could  never  get,  though  there  it  was,  perfectly 
conspicuous  in  the  right-hand  corner. 

The  way  Mr.  Darling  won  her  was  this:  the 
many  gentlemen  who  had  been  boys  when  she  was 
a  girl  discovered  simultaneously  that  they  loved 
her,  and  they  all  ran  to  her  house  to  propose  to 
her  except  Mr.  Darling,  who  took  a  cab  and 
nipped  in  first,  and  so  he  got  her.  He  got  all  of 
her,  except  the  innermost  box  and  the  kiss.  He 
never  knew  about  the  box,  and  in  time  he  gave  up 
trying  for  the  kiss.  Wendy  thought  Napoleon 
could  have  got  it,  but  I  can  picture  him  trying,  and 
then  going  off  in  a  passion,  slamming  the  door. 

Mr.  Darling  used  to  boast  to  Wendy  that  her 
mother  not  only  loved  him  but  respected  him.  He 
was  one  of  those  deep  ones  who  know  about  stocks 
and  shares.  Of  course  no  one  really  knows,  but 
he  quite  seemed  to  know,  and  he  often  said  stocks 
were  up  and  shares  were  down  in  a  way  that  would 
have  made  any  woman  respect  him. 

Mrs.  Darling  was  married  in  white,  and  at  first 
she  kept  the  books  perfectly,  almost  gleefully,  as 
if  it  were  a  game,  not  so  much  as  a  Brussels  sprout 
was  missing;  but  by  and  by  whole  cauliflowers 
dropped  out,  and  instead  of  them  there  were  pic- 

2 


PETER  BREAKS  THROUGH 

tures  of  babies  without  faces.  She  drew  them 
when  she  should  have  been  totting  up.  They 
were  Mrs.  Darling's  guesses. 

Wendy  came  first,  then  John,  then  Michael. 

For  a  week  or  two  after  Wendy  came  it  was 
doubtful  whether  they  would  be  able  to  keep  her, 
as  she  was  another  mouth  to  feed.  Mr.  Darling 
was  frightfully  proud  of  her,  but  he  was  very 
honourable,  and  he  sat  on  the  edge  of  Mrs.  Dar- 
ling's bed,  holding  her  hand  and  calculating  ex- 
penses, while  she  looked  at  him  imploringly.  She 
wanted  to  risk  it,  come  what  might,  but  that  was 
not  his  way;  his  way  was  with  a  pencil  and  a 
piece  of  paper,  and  if  she  confused  him  with  sug- 
gestions he  had  to  begin  at  the  beginning  again. 

"Now  don't  interrupt,"  he  would  beg  of  her. 

"I  have  one  pound  seventeen  here,  and  two  and 
six  at  the  office ;  I  can  cut  off  my  coffee  at  the  of- 
fice, say  ten  shillings,  making  two  nine  and  six, 
with  your  eighteen  and  three  makes  three  nine  seven, 
with  five  naught  naught  in  my  cheque-book  makes 
eight  nine  seven, — who  is  that  moving*? — eight 
nine  seven,  dot  and  carry  seven — don't  speak,  my 
own — and  the  pound  you  lent  to  that  man  who 
came  to  the  door — quiet,  child — dot  and  carry 
child — there,  you  've  done  it ! — did  I  say  nine  nine 
seven"?  yes,  I  said  nine  nine  seven;  the  question  is, 
can  we  try  it  for  a  year  on  nine  nine  seven*?" 

"Of  course  we  can,  George,"  she  cried.   But  she 

3 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

was  prejudiced  in  Wendy's  favour,  and  he  was 
really  the  grander  character  of  the  two. 

"Remember  mumps,"  he  warned  her  almost 
threateningly,  and  off  he  went  again.  "Mumps 
one  pound,  that  is  what  I  have  put  down,  but  I 
daresay  it  will  be  more  like  thirty  shillings — don't 
speak — measles  one  five,  German  measles  half  a 
guinea,  makes  two  fifteen  six — don't  waggle  your 
finger — whooping-cough,  say  fifteen  shillings"  - 
and  so  on  it  went,  and  it  added  up  differently  each 
time,  but  at  last  Wendy  just  got  through,  with 
mumps  reduced  to  twelve  six,  and  the  two  kinds 
of  measles  treated  as  one. 

There  was  the  same  excitement  over  John,  and 
Michael  had  even  a  narrower  squeak;  but  both 
were  kept,  and  soon,  you  might  have  seen  the 
three  of  them  going  in  a  row  to  Miss  Fulsom's 
Kindergarten  school,  accompanied  by  their  nurse. 

Mrs.  Darling  loved  to  have  everything  just  so, 
and  Mr.  Darling  had  a  passion  for  being  exactly 
like  his  neighbours ;  so,  of  course,  they  had  a  nurse. 
As  they  were  poor,  owing  to  the  amount  of  milk 
the  children  drank,  this  nurse  was  a  prim  New- 
foundland dog,  called  Nana,  who  had  belonged  to 
no  one  in  particular  until  the  Darlings  engaged  her. 
She  had  always  thought  children  important,  how- 
ever, and  the  Darlings  had  become  acquainted 
with  her  in  Kensington  Gardens,  where  she  spent 
most  of  her  spare  time  peeping  into  perambulators, 

4 


PETER  BREAKS  THROUGH 

and  was  much  hated  by  careless  nursemaids,  whom 
she  followed  to  their  homes  and  complained  of 
to  their  mistresses.  She  proved  to  be  quite  a 
treasure  of  a  nurse.  How  thorough  she  was  at 
bath-time,  and  up  at  any  moment  of  the  night  if 
one  of  her  charges  made  the  slightest  cry.  Of 
course  her  kennel  was  in  the  nursery.  She  had  a 
genius  for  knowing  when  a  cough  is  a  thing  to 
have  no  patience  with  and  when  it  needs  stocking 
round  your  throat.  She  believed  to  her  last  day  in 
old-fashioned  remedies  like  rhubarb  leaf,  and 
made  sounds  of  contempt  over  all  this  new-fan- 
gled talk  about  germs,  and  so  on.  It  was  a  lesson 
in  propriety  to  see  her  escorting  the  children  to 
school,  walking  sedately  by  their  side  when  they 
were  well  behaved,  and  butting  them  back  into 
line  if  they  strayed.  On  John's  footer  days  she 
never  once  forgot  his  sweater,  and  she  usually  car- 
ried an  umbrella  in  her  mouth  in  case  of  rain. 
There  is  a  room  in  the  basement  of  Miss  Fulsom's 
school  where  the  nurses  wait.  They  sat  on  forms, 
while  Nana  lay  on  the  floor,  but  that  was  the  only 
difference.  They  affected  to  ignore  her  as  of  an 
inferior  social  status  to  themselves,  and  she  de- 
spised their  light  talk.  She  resented  visits  to  the 
nursery  from  Mrs.  Darling's  friends,  but  if  they  did 
come  she  first  whipped  off  Michael's  pinafore  and 
puthim  into  theone  with  blue  braiding,and  smoothed 
out  Wendy  and  made  a  dash  at  John's  hair. 

5 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

No  nursery  could  possibly  have  been  con- 
ducted more  correctly,  and  Mr.  Darling  knew  it, 
yet  he  sometimes  wondered  uneasily  whether  the 
neighbours  talked. 

He  had  his  position  in  the  city  to  consider. 

Nana  also  troubled  him  in  another  way.  He 
had  sometimes  a  feeling  that  she  did  not  admire 
him.  "I  know  she  admires  you  tremendously, 
George,"  Mrs.  Darling  would  assure  him,  and 
then  she  would  sign  to  the  children  to  be  specially 
nice  to  father.  Lovely  dances  followed,  in  which 
the  only  other  servant,  Liza,  was  sometimes  al- 
lowed to  join.  Such  a  midget  she  looked  in  her 
long  skirt  and  maid's  cap,  though  she  had  sworn, 
when  engaged,  that  she  would  never  see  ten  again. 
The  gaiety  of  those  rornps !  And  gayest  of  all  was 
Mrs.  Darling,  who  would  pirouette  so  wildly  that 
all  you  could  see  of  her  was  the  kiss,  and  then  if 
you  had  dashed  at  her  you  might  have  got  it. 
There  never  was  a  simpler  happier  family  until 
the  coming  of  Peter  Pan. 

Mrs.  Darling  first  heard  of  Peter  when  she  was 
tidying  up  her  children's  minds.  It  is  the  nightly 
custom  of  every  good  mother  after  her  children 
are  asleep  to  rummage  in  their  minds  and  put 
things  straight  for  next  morning,  repacking  into 
their  proper  places  the  many  articles  that  have 
wandered  during  the  day.  If  you  could  keep 
awake  (but  of  course  you  can't)  you  would  see 

6 


PETER  BREAKS  THROUGH 

your  own  mother  doing  this,  and  you  would  find 
it  very  interesting  to  watch  her.  It  is  quite  like 
tidying  up  drawers.  You  would  see  her  on  her 
knees,  I  expect,  lingering  humorously  over  some 
of  your  contents,  wondering  where  on  earth  you 
had  picked  this  thing  up,  making  discoveries  sweet 
and  not  so  sweet,  pressing  this  to  her  cheek  as  if  it 
were  as  nice  as  a  kitten,  and  hurriedly  stowing 
that  out  of  sight.  When  you  wake  in  the  morn- 
ing, the  naughtinesses  and  evil  passions  with  which 
you  went  to  bed  have  been  folded  up  small  and 
placed  at  the  bottom  of  your  mind,  and  on  the 
top,  beautifully  aired,  are  spread  out  your  pret- 
tier thoughts,  ready  for  you  to  put  on. 

I  don't  know  whether  you  have  ever  seen  a  map 
of  a  person's  mind.  Doctors  sometimes  draw  maps 
of  other  parts  of  you,  and  your  own  map  can  be- 
come intensely  interesting,  but  catch  them  trying 
to  draw  a  map  of  a  child's  mind,  which  is  not  only 
confused,  but  keeps  going  round  all  the  time. 
There  are  zigzag  lines  on  it,  just  like  your  tem- 
perature on  a  card,  and  these  are  probably  roads 
in  the  island,  for  the  Neverland  is  always  more 
or  less  an  island,  with  astonishing  splashes  of 
colour  here  and  there,  and  coral  reefs  and  rakish- 
looking  craft  in  the  offing,  and  savages  and  lonely 
lairs,  and  gnomes  who  are  mostly  tailors,  and 
caves  through  which  a  river  runs,  and  princes  with 
six  elder  brothers,  and  a  hut  fast  going  to  decay, 

7 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

and  one  very  small  old  lady  with  a  hooked  nose. 
It  would  be  an  easy  map  if  that  were  all,  but  there 
is  also  first  day  at  school,  religion,  fathers,  the 
round  pond,  needle-work,  murders,  hangings, 
verbs  that  take  the  dative,  chocolate  pudding  day, 
getting  into  braces,  say  ninety-nine,  threepence  for 
pulling  out  your  tooth  yourself,  and  so  on,  and 
either  these  are  part  of  the  island  or  they  are  an- 
other map  showing  through,  and  it  is  all  rather 
confusing,  especially  as  nothing  will  stand  still. 

Of  course  the  Neverlands  vary  a  good  deal. 
John's,  for  instance,  had  a  lagoon  with  flamingoes 
flying  over  it  at  which  John  was  shooting,  while 
Michael,  who  was  very  small,  had  a  flamingo  with 
lagoons  flying  over  it.  John  lived  in  a  boat  turned 
upside  down  on  the  sands,  Michael  in  a  wigwam, 
Wendy  in  a  house  of  leaves  deftly  sewn  together. 
John  had  no  friends,  Michael  had  friends  at  night, 
Wendy  had  a  pet  wolf  forsaken  by  its  parents. 
But  on  the  whole  the  Neverlands  have  a  family 
resemblance,  and  if  they  stood  still  in  a  row  you 
could  say  of  them  that  they  have  each  other's  nose, 
and  so  forth.  On  these  magic  shores  children  at 
play  are  for  ever  beaching  their  coracles.  We  too 
have  been  there ;  we  can  still  hear  the  sound  of  the 
surf,  though  we  shall  land  no  more. 

Of  all  delectable  islands  the  Neverland  is  the 
snuggest  and  most  compact,  not  large  and  sprawly, 
you  know,  with  tedious  distances  between  one  ad- 

8 


PETER  BREAKS  THROUGH 

venture  and  another,  but  nicely  crammed.  When 
you  play  at  it  by  day  with  the  chairs  and  table- 
cloth, it  is  not  in  the  least  alarming,  but  in  the  two 
minutes  before  you  go  to  sleep  it  becomes  very 
nearly  real.  That  is  why  there  are  night-lights. 

Occasionally  in  her  travels  through  her  chil- 
dren's minds  Mrs.  Darling  found  things  she  could 
not  understand,  and  of  these  quite  the  most  per- 
plexing was  the  word  Peter.  She  knew  of  no 
Peter,  and  yet  he  was  here  and  there  in  John  and 
Michael's  minds,  while  Wendy's  began  to  be 
scrawled  all  over  with  him.  The  name  stood  out 
in  bolder  letters  than  any  of  the  other  words,  and 
as  Mrs.  Darling  gazed  she  felt  that  it  had  an  oddly 
cocky  appearance. 

"Yes,  he  is  rather  cocky,"  Wendy  admitted 
with  regret.  Her  mother  had  been  questioning 
her. 

"But  who  is  he,  my  pet*?" 

"He  is  Peter  Pan,  you  know,  mother." 

At  first  Mrs.  Darling  did  not  know,  but  after 
thinking  back  into  her  childhood  she  just  remem- 
bered a  Peter  Pan  who  was  said  to  live  with  the 
fairies.  There  were  odd  stories  about  him,  as  that 
when  children  died  he  went  part  of  the  way  with 
them,  so  that  they  should  not  be  frightened.  She 
had  believed  in  him  at  the  time,  but  now  that  she 
was  married  and  full  of  sense  she  quite  doubted 
whether  there  was  any  such  person. 

9 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

"Besides,"  she  said  to  Wendy,  "he  would  be 
grown  up  by  this  time." 

"Oh  no,  he  is  n't  grown  up,"  Wendy  assured 
her  confidently,  "and  he  is  just  my  size."  She 
meant  that  he  was  her  size  in  both  mind  and  body ; 
she  did  n't  know  how  she  knew  it,  she  just  knew  it. 

Mrs.  Darling  consulted  Mr.  Darling,  but  he 
smiled  pooh-pooh.  "Mark  my  words,"  he  said, 
"it  is  some  nonsense  Nana  has  been  putting  into 
their  heads;  just  the  sort  of  idea  a  dog  would 
have.  Leave  it  alone,  and  it  will  blow  over." 

But  it  would  not  blow  over,  and  soon  the  trou- 
blesome boy  gave  Mrs.  Darling  quite  a  shock. 

Children  have  the  strangest  adventures  with- 
out being  troubled  by  them.  For  instance,  they 
may  remember  to  mention,  a  week  after  the  event 
happened,  that  when  they  were  in  the  wood  they 
met  their  dead  father  and  had  a  game  with  him. 
It  was  in  this  casual  way  that  Wendy  one  morn- 
ing made  a  disquieting  revelation.  Some  leaves 
of  a  tree  had  been  found  on  the  nursery  floor, 
which  certainly  were  not  there  when  the  children 
went  to  bed,  and  Mrs.  Darling  was  puzzling  over 
them  when  Wendy  said  with  a  tolerant  smile : 

"I  do  believe  it  is  that  Peter  again!" 

"Whatever  do  you  mean,  Wendy?" 

"It  is  so  naughty  of  him  not  to  wipe,"  Wendy 
said,  sighing.  She  was  a  tidy  child. 

She  explained  in  quite  a  matter-of-fact  way  that 

10 


PETER  BREAKS  THROUGH 

she  thought  Peter  sometimes  came  to  the  nursery 
in  the  night  and  sat  on  the  foot  of  her  bed  and 
played  on  his  pipes  to  her.  Unfortunately  she 
never  woke,  so  she  did  n't  know  how  she  knew, 
she  just  knew. 

"What  nonsense  you  talk,  precious!  No  one 
can  get  into  the  house  without  knocking." 

"I  think  he  comes  in  by  the  window,"  she  said. 

"My  love,  it  is  three  floors  up." 

"Were  n't  the  leaves  at  the  foot  of  the  window, 
mother?" 

It  was  quite  true;  the  leaves  had  been  found 
very  near  the  window. 

Mrs.  Darling  did  not  know  what  to  think,  for 
it  all  seemed  so  natural  to  Wendy  that  you  could 
not  dismiss  it  by  saying  she  had  been  dreaming. 

"My  child,"  the  mother  cried,  "why  did  you 
not  tell  me  of  this  before?" 

"I  forgot,"  said  Wendy  lightly.  She  was  in 
a  hurry  to  get  her  breakfast. 

Oh,  surely  she  must  have  been  dreaming. 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  there  were  the  leaves. 
Mrs.  Darling  examined  them  carefully ;  they  were 
skeleton  leaves,  but  she  was  sure  they  did  not 
come  from  any  tree  that  grew  in  England.  She 
crawled  about  the  floor,  peering  at  it  with  a  candle 
for  marks  of  a  strange  foot.  She  rattled  the  poker 
up  the  chimney  and  tapped  the  walls.  She  let 
down  a  tape  from  the  window  to  the  pavement, 

11 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

and  it  was  a  sheer  drop  of  thirty  feet,  without  so 
much  as  a  spout  to  climb  up  by. 

Certainly  Wendy  had  been  dreaming. 

But  Wendy  had  not  been  dreaming,  as  the  very 
next  night  showed,  the  night  on  which  the  ex- 
traordinary adventures  of  these  children  may  be 
said  to  have  begun. 

On  the  night  we  speak  of  all  the  children  were 
once  more  in  bed.  It  happened  to  be  Nana's  even- 
ing off,  and  Mrs.  Darling  had  bathed  them  and 
sung  to  them  till  one  by  one  they  had  let  go  her 
hand  and  slid  away  into  the  land  of  sleep. 

All  were  looking  so  safe  and  cosy  that  she  smiled 
at  her  fears  now  and  sat  down  tranquilly  by  the 
fire  to  sew. 

It  was  something  for  Michael,  who  on  his  birth- 
day was  getting  into  shirts.  The  fire  was  warm, 
however,  and  the  nursery  dimly  lit  by  three  night- 
lights,  and  presently  the  sewing  lay  on  Mrs. 
Darling's  lap.  Then  her  head  nodded,  oh,  so 
gracefully.  She  was  asleep.  Look  at  the  four  of 
them,  Wendy  and  Michael  over  there,  John  here, 
and  Mrs.  Darling  by  the  fire.  There  should  have 
been  a  fourth  night-light. 

While  she  slept  she  had  a  dream.  She  dreamt 
that  the  Neverland  had  come  too  near  and  that  a 
strange  boy  had  broken  through  from  it.  He  did 
not  alarm  her,  for  she  thought  she  had  seen  him 
before  in  the  faces  of  many  women  who  have  no 

12 


PETER  BREAKS  THROUGH 

children.  Perhaps  he  is  to  be  found  in  the  faces 
of  some  mothers  also.  But  in  her  dream  he  had 
rent  the  film  that  obscures  the  Neverland,  and  she 
saw  Wendy  and  John  and  Michael  peeping 
through  the  gap. 

The  dream  by  itself  would  have  been  a  trifle, 
but  while  she  was  dreaming  the  window  of  the 
nursery  blew  open,  and  a  boy  did  drop  on  the 
floor.  He  was  accompanied  by  a  strange  light,  no 
bigger  than  your  fist,  which  darted  about  the  room 
like  a  living  thing,  and  I  think  it  must  have  been 
this  light  that  wakened  Mrs.  Darling. 

She  started  up  with  a  cry,  and  saw  the  boy,  and 
somehow  she  knew  at  once  that  he  was  Peter  Pan. 
If  you  or  I  or  Wendy  had  been  there  we  should 
have  seen  that  he  was  very  like  Mrs.  Darling's 
kiss.  He  was  a  lovely  boy,  clad  in  skeleton  leaves 
and  the  juices  that  ooze  out  of  trees,  but  the  most 
entrancing  thing  about  him  was  that  he  had  all  his 
first  teeth.  When  he  saw  she  was  a  grown-up,  he 
gnashed  the  little  pearls  at  her. 


1,3 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  SHADOW 

MRS.  DARLING  screamed,  and,  as  if  in  answer  to  a 
bell,  the  door  opened,  and  Nana  entered,  returned 
from  her  evening  out.  She  growled  and  sprang  at 
the  boy,  who  leapt  lightly  through  the  window. 
Again  Mrs.  Darling  screamed,  this  time  in  distress 
for  him,  for  she  thought  he  was  killed,  and  she  ran 
down  into  the  street  to  look  for  his  little  body,  but 
it  was  not  there;  and  she  looked  up,  and  in  the 
black  night  she  could  see  nothing  but  what  she 
thought  was  a  shooting  star. 

She  returned  to  the  nursery,  and  found  Nana 
with  something  in  her  mouth,  which  proved  to  be 
the  boy's  shadow.  As  he  leapt  at  the  window 
Nana  had  closed  it  quickly,  too  late  to  catch  him, 
but  his  shadow  had  not  had  time  to  get  out ;  slam 
went  the  window  and  snapped  it  off. 

You  may  be  sure  Mrs.  Darling  examined  the 
shadow  carefully,  but  it  was  quite  the  ordinary 
kind. 

Nana  had  no  doubt  of  what  was  the  best  thing 


THE  SHADOW 

to  do  with  this  shadow.  She  hung  it  out  at  the 
window,  meaning  "He  is  sure  to  come  back  for  it; 
let  us  put  it  where  he  can  get  it  easily  without  dis- 
turbing the  children." 

But  unfortunately  Mrs.  Darling  could  not  leave 
it  hanging  out  at  the  window,  it  looked  so  like  the 
washing  and  lowered  the  whole  tone  of  the  house. 
She  thought  of  showing  it  to  Mr.  Darling,  but  he 
was  totting  up  winter  great-coats  for  John  and 
Michael,  with  a  wet  towel  round  his  head  to  keep 
his  brain  clear,  and  it  seemed  a  shame  to  trouble 
him;  besides,  she  knew  exactly  what  he  would  say : 
"It  all  comes  of  having  a  dog  for  a  nurse." 

She  decided  to  roll  the  shadow  up  and  put  it 
away  carefully  in  a  drawer,  until  a  fitting  oppor- 
tunity came  for  telling  her  husband.  Ah  me ! 

The  opportunity  came  a  week  later,  on  that 
never-to-be-forgotten  Friday.  Of  course  it  was 
a  Friday. 

"I  ought  to  have  been  specially  careful  on  a 
Friday,"  she  used  to  say  afterwards  to  her  hus- 
band, while  perhaps  Nana  was  on  the  other  side 
of  her,  holding  her  hand. 

"No,  no,"  Mr.  Darling  always  said,  "I  am  re- 
sponsible for  it  all.  I,  George  Darling,  did  it. 
Mea  culpa,  mea  culpa"  He  had  had  a  classical 
education. 

They  sat  thus  night  after  night  recalling  that 
fatal  Friday,  till  every  detail  of  it  was  stamped  on 

15 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

their  brains  and  came  through  on  the  other  side 
like  the  faces  on  a  bad  coinage. 

"If  only  I  had  not  accepted  that  invitation  to 
dine  at  27,"  Mrs.  Darling  said. 

"If  only  I  had  not  poured  my  medicine  into 
Nana's  bowl,"  said  Mr.  Darling. 

"If  only  I  had  pretended  to  like  the  medicine," 
was  what  Nana's  wet  eyes  said. 

"My  liking  for  parties,  George." 

"My  fatal  gift  of  humour,  dearest." 

"My  touchiness  about  trifles,  dear  master  and 
mistress." 

Then  one  or  more  of  them  would  break  down 
altogether;  Nana  at  the  thought,  "It  's  true,  it  's 
true,  they  ought  not  to  have  had  a  dog  for  a 
nurse."  Many  a  time  it  was  Mr.  Darling  who  put 
the  handkerchief  to  Nana's  eyes. 

"That  fiend!"  Mr.  Darling  would  cry,  and 
Nana's  bark  was  the  echo  of  it,  but  Mrs.  Darling 
never  upbraided  Peter ;  there  was  something  in  the 
right-hand  corner  of  her  mouth  that  wanted  her 
not  to  call  Peter  names. 

They  would  sit  there  in  the  empty  nursery,  re- 
calling fondly  every  smallest  detail  of  that  dread- 
ful evening.  It  had  begun  so  uneventfully,  so 
precisely  like  a  hundred  other  evenings,  with  Nana 
putting  on  the  water  for  Michael's  bath  and  carry- 
ing him  to  it  on  her  back. 

"I  won't  go  to  bed,"  he  had  shouted,  like  one 
16 


THE  SHADOW 

who  still  believed  that  he  had  the  last  word  on 
the  subject,  "I  won't,  I  won't.  Nana,  it  is  n't  six 
o'clock  yet.  Oh  dear,  oh  dear,  I  sha'n't  love  you 
any  more,  Nana.  I  tell  you  I  won't  be  bathed,  I 
won't,  I  won't !" 

Then  Mrs.  Darling  had  come  in,  wearing  her 
white  evening-gown.  She  had  dressed  early  be- 
cause Wendy  so  loved  to  see  her  in  her  evening- 
gown,  with  the  necklace  George  had  given  her. 
She  was  wearing  Wendy's  bracelet  on  her  arm; 
she  had  asked  for  the  loan  of  it.  Wendy  so  loved 
to  lend  her  bracelet  to  her  mother. 

She  had  found  her  two  older  children  playing 
at  being  herself  and  father  on  the  occasion  of 
Wendy's  birth,  and  John  was  saying: 

"I  am  happy  to  inform  you,  Mrs.  Darling,  that 
you  are  now  a  mother,"  in  just  such  a  tone  as  Mr. 
Darling  himself  may  have  used  on  the  real  occa- 
sion. 

Wendy  had  danced  with  joy,  just  as  the  real 
Mrs.  Darling  must  have  done. 

Then  John  was  born,  with  the  extra  pomp  that 
he  conceived  due  to  the  birth  of  a  male,  and 
Michael  came  from  his  bath  to  ask  to  be  born  also, 
but  John  said  brutally  that  they  did  not  want  any 
more. 

Michael  had  nearly  cried.  "Nobody  wants 
me,''  he  said,  and  of  course  the  lady  in  evening- 
dress  could  not  stand  that. 

17 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

"I  do,"  she  said,  "I  so  want  a  third  child." 

"Boy  or  girl1?"  asked  Michael,  not  too  hope- 
fully. 

"Boy." 

Then  he  had  leapt  into  her  arms.  Such  a  little 
thing  for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Darling  and  Nana  to  re- 
call now,  but  not  so  little  if  that  was  to  be  Mi- 
chael's last  night  in  the  nursery. 

They  go  on  with  their  recollections. 

"It  was  then  that  I  rushed  in  like  a  tornado, 
wasn't  it*?"  Mr.  Darling  would  say,  scorning  him- 
self; and  indeed  he  had  been  like  a  tornado. 

Perhaps  there  was  some  excuse  for  him.  He, 
too,  had  been  dressing  for  the  party,  and  all  had 
gone  well  with  him  until  he  came  to  his  tie.  It  is 
an  astounding  thing  to  have  to  tell,  but  this  man, 
though  he  knew  about  stocks  and  shares,  had  no 
real  mastery  of  his  tie.  Sometimes  the  thing 
yielded  to  him  without  a  contest,  but  there  were 
occasions  when  it  would  have  been  better  for  the 
house  if  he  had  swallowed  his  pride  and  used  a 
made-up  tie. 

This  was  such  an  occasion.  He  came  rushing 
into  the  nursery  with  the  crumpled  little  brute  of 
a  tie  in  his  hand. 

"Why,  what  is  the  matter,  father  dear?" 

"Matter!"  he  yelled;  he  really  yelled.  "This 
tie,  it  will  not  tie."  He  became  dangerously  sar- 

18 


THE  SHADOW 

castic,  "Not  round  my  neck!  Round  the  bed- 
post! Oh  yes,  twenty  times  have  I  made  it  up 
round  the  bed-post,  but  round  my  neck,  no!  Oh 
dear  no !  begs  to  be  excused !" 

He  thought  Mrs.  Darling  was  not  sufficiently 
impressed,  and  he  went  on  sternly,  "I  warn  you 
of  this,  mother,  that  unless  this  tie  is  round  my 
neck  we  don't  go  out  to  dinner  to-night,  and  if  I 
don't  go  out  to  dinner  to-night,  I  never  go  to  the 
office  again,  and  if  I  don't  go  to  the  office  again, 
you  and  I  starve,  and  our  children  will  be  flung 
into  the  streets." 

Even  then  Mrs.  Darling  was  placid.  "Let  me 
try,  dear,"  she  said,  and  indeed  that  was  what  he 
had  come  to  ask  her  to  do,  and  with  her  nice  cool 
hands  she  tied  his  tie  for  him,  while  the  children 
stood  around  to  see  their  fate  decided.  Some  men 
would  have  resented  her  being  able  to  do  it  so 
easily,  but  Mr.  Darling  was  far  too  fine  a  nature 
for  that ;  he  thanked  her  carelessly,  at  once  forgot 
his  rage,  and  in  another  moment  was  dancing 
round  the  room  with  Michael  on  his  back. 

"How  wildly  we  romped!"  says  Mrs.  Darling 
now,  recalling  it. 

"Our  last  romp !"  Mr.  Darling  groaned. 

"O  George,  do  you  remember  Michael  sud- 
denly said  to  me,  'How  did  you  get  to  know  me, 
mother?  " 

19 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

"I  remember!" 

"They  were  rather  sweet,  don't  you  think, 
George?" 

"And  they  were  ours,  ours!  and  now  they  are 
gone." 

The  romp  had  ended  with  the  appearance  of 
Nana,  and  most  unluckily  Mr.  Darling  collided 
against  her,  covering  his  trousers  with  hairs.  They 
were  not  only  new  trousers,  but  they  were  the  first 
he  had  ever  had  with  braid  on  them,  and  he  had 
to  bite  his  lip  to  prevent  the  tears  coming.  Of 
course  Mrs.  Darling  brushed  him,  but  he  began  to 
talk  again  about  its  being  a  mistake  to  have  a  dog 
for  a  nurse. 

"George,  Nana  is  a  treasure." 

"No  doubt,  but  I  have  an  uneasy  feeling  at 
times  that  she  looks  upon  the  children  as  puppies." 

"Oh  no,  dear  one,  I  feel  sure  she  knows  they 
have  souls." 

"I  wonder,"  Mr.  Darling  said  thoughtfully,  "I 
wonder."  It  was  an  opportunity,  his  wife  felt,  for 
telling  him  about  the  boy.  At  first  he  pooh-poohed 
the  story,  but  he  became  thoughtful  when  she 
showed  him  the  shadow. 

"It  is  nobody  I  know,"  he  said,  examining  it 
carefully,  "but  he  does  look  a  scoundrel." 

"We  were  still  discussing  it,  you  remember," 
says  Mr.  Darling,  "when  Nana  came  in  with 
Michael's  medicine.  You  will  never  carry  the 

20 


THE  SHADOW 

bottle  in  your  mouth  again,  Nana,  and  it  is  all  my 
fault." 

Strong  man  though  he  was,  there  is  no  doubt  that 
he  had  behaved  rather  foolishly  over  the  medicine. 
If  he  had  a  weakness,  it  was  for  thinking  that  all 
his  life  he  had  taken  medicine  boldly,  and  so  now, 
when  Michael  dodged  the  spoon  in  Nana's  mouth, 
he  had  said  reprovingly,  "Be  a  man,  Michael." 

"Won't;  won't!"  Michael  cried  naughtily. 
Mrs.  Darling  left  the  room  to  get  a  chocolate  for 
him,  and  Mr.  Darling  thought  this  showed  want 
of  firmness. 

"Mother,  don't  pamper  him,"  he  called  after 
her.  "Michael,  when  I  was  your  age  I  took  medi- 
cine without  a  murmur.  I  said  'Thank  you,  kind 
parents,  for  giving  me  bottles  to  make  me  well.' ' 

He  really  thought  this  was  true,  and  Wendy, 
who  was  now  in  her  night-gown,  believed  it  also, 
and  she  said,  to  encourage  Michael,  "That  medi- 
cine you  sometimes  take,  father,  is  much  nastier, 
isn't  it?" 

"Ever  so  much  nastier,"  Mr.  Darling  said 
bravely,  "and  I  would  take  it  now  as  an  example 
to  you,  Michael,  if  I  hadn't  lost  the  bottle." 

He  had  not  exactly  lost  it;  he  had  climbed  in 
the  dead  of  night  to  the  top  of  the  wardrobe  and 
hidden  it  there.  What  he  did  not  know  was  that 
the  faithful  Liza  had  found  it,  and  put  it  back  on 
his  wash-stand. 

21 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

"I  know  where  it  is,  father,"  Wendy  cried,  al- 
ways glad  to  be  of  service.  "I'll  bring  it,"  and 
she  was  off  before  he  could  stop  her.  Immediately 
his  spirits  sank  in  the  strangest  way. 

"John,"  he  said,  shuddering,  "it's  most  beastly 
stuff.  It's  that  nasty,  sticky,  sweet  kind." 

"It  will  soon  be  over,  father,"  John  said  cheer- 
ily, and  then  in  rushed  Wendy  with  the  medicine 
in  a  glass. 

"I  have  been  as  quick  as  I  could,"  she  panted. 

"You  have  been  wonderfully  quick,"  her  father 
retorted,  with  a  vindictive  politeness  that  was 
quite  thrown  away  upon  her.  "Michael  first,"  he 
said  doggedly. 

"Father  first,"  said  Michael,  who  was  of  a  sus- 
picious nature. 

"I  shall  be  sick,  you  know,"  Mr.  Darling  said 
threateningly. 

"Come  on,  father,"  said  John. 

"Hold  your  tongue,  John,"  his  father  rapped 
out. 

Wendy  was  quite  puzzled.  "I  thought  you 
took  it  quite  easily,  father." 

"That  is  not  the  point,"  he  retorted.  "The 
point  is,  that  there  is  more  in  my  glass  than  in 
Michael's  spoon."  His  proud  heart  was  nearly 
bursting.  "And  it  isn't  fair;  I  would  say  it  though 
it  were  with  my  last  breath;  it  isn't  fair." 

"Father,  I  am  waiting,"  said  Michael  coldly. 

22 


THE  SHADOW 

"It's  all  very  well  to  say  you  are  waiting;  so  am 
I  waiting." 

"Father's  a  cowardy  custard." 

"So  are  you  a  cowardy  custard." 

"I'm  not  frightened." 

"Neither  am  I  frightened." 

"Well,  then,  take  it." 

"Well,  then,  you  take  it." 

Wendy  had  a  splendid  idea.  "Why  not  both 
take  it  at  the  same  time?" 

"Certainly,"  said  Mr.  Darling.  "Are  you 
ready,  Michael*?" 

Wendy  gave  the  words,  one,  two,  three,  and 
Michael  took  his  medicine,  but  Mr.  Darling 
slipped  his  behind  his  back. 

There  was  a  yell  of  rage  from  Michael,  and 
"O  father!"  Wendy  exclaimed. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'O  father'?"  Mr. 
Darling  demanded.  "Stop  that  row,  Michael.  I 
meant  to  take  mine,  but  I — I  missed  it." 

It  was  dreadful  the  way  all  the  three  were  look- 
ing at  him,  just  as  if  they  did  not  admire  him. 
"Look  here,  all  of  you,"  he  said  entreatingly,  as 
soon  as  Nana  had  gone  into  the  bathroom,  "I  have 
just  thought  of  a  splendid  joke.  I  shall  pour  my 
medicine  into  Nana's  bowl,  and  she  will  drink  it, 
thinking  it  is  milk !" 

It  was  the  colour  of  milk;  but  the  children  did 
not  have  their  father's  sense  of  humour,  and  they 

23 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

looked  at  him  reproachfully  as  he  poured  the  medi- 
cine into  Nana's  bowl.  "What  fun!"  he  said 
doubtfully,  and  they  did  not  dare  expose  him  when 
Mrs.  Darling  and  Nana  returned. 

"Nana,  good  dog,"  he  said,  patting  her,  "I  have 
put  a  little  milk  into  your  bowl,  Nana." 

Nana  wagged  her  tail,  ran  to  the  medicine,  and 
began  lapping  it.  Then  she  gave  Mr.  Darling 
such  a  look,  not  an  angry  look:  she  showed  him 
the  great  red  tear  that  makes  us  so  sorry  for  noble 
dogs,  and  crept  into  her  kennel. 

Mr.  Darling  was  frightfully  ashamed  of  him- 
self, but  he  would  not  give  in.  In  a  horrid  silence 
Mrs.  Darling  smelt  the  bowl.  "O  George,"  she 
said,  "it's  your  medicine !" 

"It  was  only  a  joke,"  he  roared,  while  she  com- 
forted her  boys,  and  Wendy  hugged  Nana. 
"Much  good,"  he  said  bitterly,  "my  wearing  my- 
self to  the  bone  trying  to  be  funny  in  this  house." 

And  still  Wendy  hugged  Nana.  "That's  right," 
he  shouted.  "Coddle  her!  Nobody  coddles  me. 
Oh  dear  no!  I  am  only  the  breadwinner,  why 
should  I  be  coddled — why,  why,  why!" 

"George,"  Mrs.  Darling  entreated  him,  "not  so 
loud;  the  servants  will  hear  you."  Somehow  they 
had  got  into  the  way  of  calling  Liza  the  servants. 

"Let  them!"  he  answered  recklessly.  "Bring 
in  the  whole  world.  But  I  refuse  to  allow  that 
dog  to  lord  it  in  my  nursery  for  an  hour  longer." 

24 


THE  SHADOW 

The  children  wept,  and  Nana  ran  to  him  be- 
seechingly, but  he  waved  her  back.  He  felt  he 
was  a  strong  man  again.  "In  vain,  in  vain,"  he 
cried;  "the  proper  place  for  you  is  the  yard,  and 
there  you  go  to  be  tied  up  this  instant." 

"George,  George,"  Mrs.  Darling  whispered, 
"remember  what  I  told  you  about  that  boy." 

Alas,  he  would  not  listen.  He  was  determined 
to  show  who  was  master  in  that  house,  and  when 
commands  would  not  draw  Nana  from  the  kennel, 
he  lured  her  out  of  it  with  honeyed  words,  and 
seizing  her  roughly,  dragged  her  from  the  nursery. 
He  was  ashamed  of  himself,  and  yet  he  did  it.  It 
was  all  owing  to  his  too  affectionate  nature,  which 
craved  for  admiration.  When  he  had  tied  her  up 
in  the  back-yard,  the  wretched  father  went  and  sat 
in  the  passage,  with  his  knuckles  to  his  eyes. 

In  the  meantime  Mrs.  Darling  had  put  the  chil- 
dren to  bed  in  unwonted  silence  and  lit  their  night- 
lights.  They  could  hear  Nana  barking,  and  John 
whimpered,  "It  is  because  he  is  chaining  her  up  in 
the  yard,-"  but  Wendy  was  wiser. 

"That  is  not  Nana's  unhappy  bark,"  she  said, 
little  guessing  what  was  about  to  happen ;  "that  is 
her  bark  when  she  smells  danger." 

Danger ! 

"Are  you  sure,  Wendy*?" 

"Oh  yes." 

Mrs.  Darling  quivered  and  went  to  the  win- 

25 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

dow.  It  was  securely  fastened.  She  looked  out, 
and  the  night  was  peppered  with  stars.  They 
were  crowding  round  the  house,  as  if  curious  to 
see  what  was  to  take  place  there,  but  she  did  not 
notice  this,  nor  that  one  or  two  of  the  smaller  ones 
winked  at  her.  Yet  a  nameless  fear  clutched  at 
her  heart  and  made  her  cry,  "Oh,  how  I  wish  that 
I  wasn't  going  to  a  party  to-night !" 

Even  Michael,  already  half  asleep,  knew  that 
she  was  perturbed,  and  he  asked,  "Can  anything 
harm  us,  mother,  after  the  night-lights  are  lit?" 

"Nothing,  precious,"  she  said;  "they  are  the 
eyes  a  mother  leaves  behind  her  to  guard  her  chil- 
dren." 

She  went  from  bed  to  bed  singing  enchantments 
over  them,  and  little  Michael  flung  his  arms 
round  her.  "Mother,"  he  cried,  "I'm  glad  of 
you."  They  were  the  last  words  she  was  to  hear 
from  him  for  a  long  time. 

No.  27  was  only  a  few  yards  distant,  but  there 
had  been  a  slight  fall  of  snow,  and  Father  and 
Mother  Darling  picked  their  way  over  it  deftly 
not  to  soil  their  shoes.  They  were  already  the 
only  persons  in  the  street,  and  all  the  stars  were 
watching  them.  Stars  are  beautiful,  but  they  may 
not  take  an  active  part  in  anything,  they  must  just 
look  on  for  ever.  It  is  a  punishment  put  on  them 
for  something  they  did  so  long  ago  that  no  star 
now  knows  what  it  was.  So  the  older  ones  have 

26 


THE  SHADOW 

become  glassy-eyed  and  seldom  speak  (winking 
is  the  star  language),  but  the  little  ones  still  won- 
der. They  are  not  really  friendly  to  Peter,  who 
has  a  mischievous  way  of  stealing  up  behind  them 
and  trying  to  blow  them  out ;  but  they  are  so  fond 
of  fun  that  they  were  on  his  side  to-night,  and 
anxious  to  get  the  grown-ups  out  of  the  way.  So 
as  soon  as  the  door  of  27  closed  on  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Darling  there  was  a  commotion  in  the  firmament, 
and  the  smallest  of  all  the  stars  in  the  Milky  Way 
screamed  out : 
"Now,  Peter!" 


CHAPTER  III 

COME  AWAY,  COME  A  WAY  ! 

FOR  a  moment  after  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Darling  left 
the  house  the  night-lights  by  the  beds  of  the  three 
children  continued  to  burn  clearly.  They  were 
awfully  nice  little  night-lights,  and  one  cannot 
help  wishing  that  they  could  have  kept  awake  to 
see  Peter;  but  Wendy's  light  blinked  and  gave 
such  a  yawn  that  the  other  two  yawned  also,  and 
before  they  could  close  their  mouths  all  the  three 
went  out. 

There  was  another  light  in  the  room  now,  a 
thousand  times  brighter  than  the  night-lights,  and 
in  the  time  we  have  taken  to  say  this,  it  has  been 
in  all  the  drawers  in  the  nursery,  looking  for 
Peter's  shadow,  rummaged  the  wardrobe  and 
turned  every  pocket  inside  out.  It  was  not  really 
a  light;  it  made  this  light  by  flashing  about  so 
quickly,  but  when  it  came  to  rest  for  a  second  you 
saw  it  was  a  fairy,  no  longer  than  your  hand,  but 
still  growing.  It  was  a  girl  called  Tinker  Bell 
exquisitely  gowned  in  a  skeleton  leaf,  cut  low  and 

28 


COME  AWAY,  COME  AWAY! 

square,  through  which  her  figure  could  be  seen  to 
the  best  advantage.     She  was  slightly  inclined  to 

v- 

embonpoint. 

A  moment  after  the  fairy's  entrance  the  window 
was  blown  open  by  the  breathing  of  the  little 
stars,  and  Peter  dropped  in.  He  had  carried 
Tinker  Bell  part  of  the  way,  and  his  hand  was 
still  messy  with  the  fairy  dust. 

"Tinker  Bell,"  he  called  softly,  after  making 
sure  that  the  children  were  asleep.  "Tink,  where 
are  you*?"  She  was  in  a  jug  for  the  moment,  and 
liking  it  extremely;  she  had  never  been  in  a  jug 
before. 

"Oh,  do  come  out  of  that  jug,  and  tell  me,  do 
you  know  where  they  put  my  shadow  *?" 

The  loveliest  tinkle  as  of  golden  bells  answered 
him.  It  is  the  fairy  language.  You  ordinary  chil- 
dren can  never  hear  it,  but  if  you  were  to  hear  it 
you  would  know  that  you  had  heard  it  once  before. 

Tink  said  that  the  shadow  was  in  the  big  box. 
She  meant  the  chest  of  drawers,  and  Peter  jumped 
at  the  drawers,  scattering  their  contents  to  the 
floor  with  both  hands,  as  kings  toss  ha'pence  to 
the  crowd.  In  a  moment  he  had  recovered  his 
shadow,  and  in  his  delight  he  forgot  that  he  had 
shut  Tinker  Bell  up  in  the  drawer. 

If  he  thought  at  all,  but  I  don't  believe  he  ever 
thought,  it  was  that  he  and  his  shadow,  when 
brought  near  each  other,  would  join  like  drops  of 

29 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

water,  and  when  they  did  not  he  was  appalled. 
He  tried  to  stick  it  on  with  soap  from  the  bath- 
room, but  that  also  failed.  A  shudder  passed 
through  Peter,  and  he  sat  on  the  floor  and  cried. 

His  sobs  woke  Wendy,  and  she  sat  up  in  bed. 
She  was  not  alarmed  to  see  a  stranger  crying  on 
the  nursery  floor;  she  was  only  pleasantly  inter- 
ested. 

"Boy,"  she  said  courteously,  "why  are  you 
crying*?" 

Peter  could  be  exceedingly  polite  also,  having 
learned  the  grand  manner  at  fairy  ceremonies,  and 
he  rose  and  bowed  to  her  beautifully.  She  was 
much  pleased,  and  bowed  beautifully  to  him  from 
the  bed. 

"What's  your  name*?"  he  asked. 

"Wendy  Moira  Angela  Darling,"  she  replied 
with  some  satisfaction.  "What  is  your  name*?" 

"Peter  Pan." 

She  was  already  sure  that  he  must  be  Peter,  but 
it  did  seem  a  comparatively  short  name. 

"Is  that  all?' 

"Yes,"  he  said  rather  sharply.  He  felt  for  the 
first  time  that  it  was  a  shortish  name. 

"I'm  so  sorry,"  said  Wendy  Moira  Angela. 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  Peter  gulped. 

She  asked  where  he  lived. 

"Second  to  the  right,"  said  Peter,  "and  then 
straight  on  till  morning." 

30 


COME  AWAY,  COME  AWAY! 

"What  a  funny  address !" 

Peter  had  a  sinking.  For  the  first  time  he  felt 
that  perhaps  it  was  a  funny  address. 

"No,  it  isn't,"  he  said. 

"I  mean,"  Wendy  said  nicely,  remembering  that 
she  was  hostess,  "is  that  what  they  put  on  the  let- 
ters'?" 

He  wished  she  had  not  mentioned  letters. 

"Don't  get  any  letters,"  he  said  contemptu- 
ously. 

"But  your  mother  gets  letters'?" 

"Don't  have  a  mother,"  he  said.  Not  only  had 
he  no  mother,  but  he  had  not  the  slightest  desire  to 
have  one.  He  thought  them  very  over-rated  per- 
sons. Wendy,  however,  felt  at  once  that  she  was 
in  the  presence  of  a  tragedy. 

"O  Peter,  no  wonder  you  were  crying,"  she  said, 
and  got  out  of  bed  and  ran  to  him. 

"I  wasn't  crying  about  mothers,"  he  said  rather 
indignantly.  "I  was  crying  because  I  can't  get  my 
shadow  to  stick  on.  Besides,  I  wasn't  crying/' 

"It  has  come  off?" 

"Yes." 

Then  Wendy  saw  the  shadow  on  the  floor,  look- 
ing so  draggled,  and  she  was  frightfully  sorry  for 
Peter.  "How  awful !"  she  said,  but  she  could  not 
help  smiling  when  she  saw  that  he  had  been  trying 
to  stick  it  on  with  soap.  How  exactly  like  a  boy ! 

Fortunately  she  knew  at  once  what  to  do.     "It 

31 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

must  be  sewn  on,"  she  said,  just  a  little  patron- 
isingly. 

"What's  sewn?"  he  asked. 

"You're  dreadfully  ignorant." 

"No,  I'm  not." 

But  she  was  exulting  in  his  ignorance.  "I  shall 
sew  it  on  for  you,  my  little  man,"  she  said,  though 
he  was  as  tall  as  herself,  and  she  got  out  her  house- 
wife, and  sewed  the  shadow  on  to  Peter's  foot. 

"I  daresay  it  will  hurt  a  little,"  she  warned 
him. 

"Oh,  I  sha'n't  cry,"  said  Peter,  who  was  already 
of  opinion  that  he  had  never  cried  in  his  life. 
And  he  clenched  his  teeth  and  did  not  cry,  and 
soon  his  shadow  was  behaving  properly,  though 
still  a  little  creased. 

"Perhaps  I  should  have  ironed  it,"  Wendy  said 
thoughtfully,  but  Peter,  boylike,  was  indifferent 
to  appearances,  and  he  was  now  jumping  about  in 
the  wildest  glee.  Alas,  he  had  already  forgotten 
that  he  owed  his  bliss  to  Wendy.  He  thought  he 
had  attached  the  shadow  himself.  "How  clever  I 
am!"  he  crowed  rapturously,  "oh,  the  cleverness 
of  me!" 

It  is  humiliating  to  have  to  confess  that  this 
conceit  of  Peter  was  one  of  his  most  fascinating 
qualities.  To  put  it  with  brutal  frankness,  there 
never  was  a  cockier  boy. 

But    for    the    moment    Wendy    was    shocked. 

32 


COME  AWAY,  COME  AWAY! 

"You  conceit,"  she  exclaimed,  with  frightful  sar- 
casm; "of  course  I  did  nothing!" 

"You  did  a  little,"  Peter  said  carelessly,  and 
continued  to  dance. 

"A  little !"  she  replied  with  hauteur.  "If  I  am 
no  use  I  can  at  least  withdraw,"  and  she  sprang  in 
the  most  dignified  way  into  bed  and  covered  her 
face  with  the  blankets. 

To  induce  her  to  look  up  he  pretended  to  be 
going  away,  and  when  this  failed  he  sat  on  the  end 
of  the  bed  and  tapped  her  gently  with  his  foot. 
"Wendy,"  he  said,  "don't  withdraw.  I  can't  help 
crowing,  Wendy,  when  I'm  pleased  with  myself." 
Still  she  would  not  look  up,  though  she  was  listen- 
ing eagerly.  "Wendy,"  he  continued,  in  a  voice 
that  no  woman  has  ever  yet  been  able  to  resist, 
"Wendy,  one  girl  is  more  use  than  twenty 
boys." 

Now  Wendy  was  every  inch  a  woman,  though 
there  were  not  very  many  inches,  and  she  peeped 
out  of  the  bed-clothes. 

"Do  you  really  think  so,  Peter?" 

"Yes,  I  do." 

"I  think  it's  perfectly  sweet  of  you,"  she  de- 
clared, "and  I'll  get  up  again,"  and  she  sat  with 
him  on  the  side  of  the  bed.  She  also  said  she 
would  give  him  a  kiss  if  he  liked,  but  Peter  did 
not  know  what  she  meant,  and  he  held  out  his 
hand  expectantly. 

33 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

"Surely  you  know  what  a  kiss  is?"  she  asked, 
aghast. 

"I  shall  know  when  you  give  it  to  me,"  he  re- 
plied stiffly,  and  not  to  hurt  his  feelings  she  gave 
him  a  thimble. 

"Now,"  said  he,  "shall  I  give  you  a  kiss?"  and 
she  replied  with  a  slight  primness,  "If  you  please." 
She  made  herself  rather  cheap  by  inclining  her 
face  toward  him,  but  he  merely  dropped  an  acorn 
button  into  her  hand,  so  she  slowly  returned  her 
face  to  where  it  had  been  before,  and  said  nicely 
that  she  would  wear  his  kiss  on  the  chain  round 
her  neck.  It  was  lucky  that  she  did  put  it  on  that 
chain,  for  it  was  afterwards  to  save  her  life. 

When  people  in  our  set  are  introduced,  it  is  cus- 
tomary for  them  to  ask  each  other's  age,  and  so 
Wendy,  who  always  liked  to  do  the  correct  thing, 
asked  Peter  how  old  he  was.  It  was  not  really 
a  happy  question  to  ask  him ;  it  was  like  an  exami- 
nation paper  that  asks  grammar,  when  what  you 
want  to  be  asked  is  Kings  of  England. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  replied  uneasily,  "but  I  am 
quite  young."  He  really  knew  nothing  about  it, 
he  had  merely  suspicions,  but  he  said  at  a  venture, 
"Wendy,  I  ran  away  the  day  I  was  born." 

Wendy  was  quite  surprised,  but  interested;  and 
she  indicated  in  the  charming  drawing-room  man- 
ner, by  a  touch  on  her  night-gown,  that  he  could 
sit  nearer  her. 

34 


COME  AWAY,  COME  AWAY! 

"It  was  because  I  heard  father  and  mother,"  he 
explained  in  a  low  voice,  "talking  about  what  I 
was  to  be  when  I  became  a  man."  He  was  ex- 
traordinarily agitated  now.  "I  don't  want  ever  to 
be  a  man,"  he  said  with  passion.  "I  want  always 
to  be  a  little  boy  and  to  have  fun.  So  I  ran  away 
to  Kensington  Gardens  and  lived  a  long  long  time 
among  the  fairies." 

She  gave  him  a  look  of  the  most  intense  admira- 
tion, and  he  thought  it  was  because  he  had  run 
away,  but  it  was  really  because  he  knew  fairies. 
Wendy  had  lived  such  a  home  life  that  to  know 
fairies  struck  her  as  quite  delightful.  She  poured 
out  questions  about  them,  to  his  surprise,  for  they 
were  rather  a  nuisance  to  him,  getting  in  his  way 
and  so  on,  and  indeed  he  sometimes  had  to  give 
them  a  hiding.  Still,  he  liked  them  on  the  whole, 
and  he  told  her  about  the  beginning  of  fairies. 

"You  see,  Wendy,  when  the  first  baby  laughed 
for  the  first  time,  its  laugh  broke  into  a  thousand 
pieces,  and  they  all  went  skipping  about,  and  that 
was  the  beginning  of  fairies." 

Tedious  talk  this,  but  being  a  stay-at-home  she 
liked  it. 

"And  so,"  he  went  on  good-naturedly,  "there 
ought  to  be  one  fairy  for  every  boy  and  girl." 

"Ought  to  be  ?    Isn't  there  T 

"No.  You  see  children  know  such  a  lot  now, 
they  soon  don't  believe  in  fairies,  and  every  time 

35 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

a  child  says,  'I  don't  believe  in  fairies,'  there  is  a 
fairy  somewhere  that  falls  down  dead." 

Really,  he  thought  they  had  now  talked  enough 
about  fairies,  and  it  struck  him  that  Tinker  Bell 
was  keeping  very  quiet.  "I  can't  think  where  she 
has  gone  to,"  he  said,  rising,  and  he  called  Tink  by 
name.  Wendy's  heart  went  flutter  with  a  sudden 
thrill. 

"Peter,"  she  cried,  clutching  him,  "you  don't 
mean  to  tell  me  that  there  is  a  fairy  in  this  room !" 

"She  was  here  just  now,"  he  said  a  little  im- 
patiently. "You  don't  hear  her,  do  you*?"  and 
they  both  listened. 

"The  only  sound  I  hear,"  said  Wendy,  "is  like  a 
tinkle  of  bells." 

"Well,  that's  Tink,  that's  the  fairy  language. 
I  think  I  hear  her  too." 

The  sound  came  from  the  chest  of  drawers,  and 
Peter  made  a  merry  face.  No  one  could  ever  look 
quite  so  merry  as  Peter,  and  the  loveliest  of  gur- 
gles was  his  laugh.  He  had  his  first  laugh  still. 

"Wendy,"  he  whispered  gleefully,  "I  do  believe 
I  shut  her  up  in  the  drawer!" 

He  let  poor  Tink  out  of  the  drawer,  and  she 
flew  about  the  nursery  screaming  with  fury.  "You 
shouldn't  say  such  things,"  Peter  retorted.  "Of 
course  I'm  very  sorry,  but  how  could  I  know  you 
were  in  the  drawer*?" 

Wendy  was  not  listening  to  him.     "O  Peter," 

36 


COME  AWAY,  COME  AWAY! 

she  cried,  "if  she  would  only  stand  still  and  let  me 
see  her!" 

"They  hardly  ever  stand  still,"  he  said,  but  for 
one  moment  Wendy  saw  the  romantic  figure  come 
to  rest  on  the  cuckoo  clock.  "O  the  lovely!"  she 
cried,  though  Tink's  face  was  still  distorted  with 
passion. 

"Tink,"  said  Peter  amiably,  "this  lady  says  she 
wishes  you  were  her  fairy." 

Tinker  Bell  answered  insolently. 

"What  does  she  say,  Peter?" 

He  had  to  translate.  "She  is  not  very  polite. 
She  says  you  are  a  great  ugly  girl,  and  that  she  is 
my  fairy." 

He  tried  to  argue  with  Tink.  "You  know  you 
can't  be  my  fairy,  Tink,  because  I  am  a  gentleman 
and  you  are  a  lady." 

To  this  Tink  replied  in  these  words,  "You  silly 
ass,"  and  disappeared  into  the  bathroom.  "She  is 
quite  a  common  fairy,"  Peter  explained  apolo- 
getically, "she  is  called  Tinker  Bell  because  she 
mends  the  pots  and  kettles." 

They  were  together  in  the  armchair  by  this  time, 
and  Wendy  plied  him  with  more  questions. 

"If  you  don't  live  in  Kensington  Gardens 
now " 

"Sometimes  I  do  still." 

"But  where  do  you  live  mostly  now?" 

"With  the  lost  boys." 

37 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

"Who  are  they?" 

"They  are  the  children  who  fall  out  of  their 
perambulators  when  the  nurse  is  looking  the  other 
way.  If  they  are  not  claimed  in  seven  days  they 
are  sent  far  away  to  the  Neverland  to  defray  ex- 
penses. I'm  captain." 

"What  fun  it  must  be!" 

"Yes,"  said  cunning  Peter,  "but  we  are  rather 
lonely.  You  see  we  have  no  female  companion- 
ship." 

"Are  none  of  the  others  girls'?" 

"Oh  no;  girls,  you  know,  are  much  too  clever  to 
fall  out  of  their  prams." 

This  flattered  Wendy  immensely.  "I  think,'* 
she  said,  "it  is  perfectly  lovely  the  way  you  talk 
about  girls;  John  there  just  despises  us." 

For  reply  Peter  rose  and  kicked  John  out  of 
bed,  blankets  and  all;  one  kick.  This  seemed  to 
Wendy  rather  forward  for  a  first  meeting,  and  she 
told  him  with  spirit  that  he  was  not  captain  in  her 
house.  However,  John  continued  to  sleep  so 
placidly  on  the  floor  that  she  allowed  him  to  re- 
main there.  "And  I  know  you  meant  to  be 
kind,"  she  said,  relenting,  "so  you  may  give  me  a 
kiss." 

For  the  moment  she  had  forgotten  his  igno- 
rance about  kisses.  "I  thought  you  would  want  it 
back,"  he  said  a  little  bitterly,  and  offered  to  re- 
turn her  the  thimble. 

38 


COME  AWAY,  COME  AWAY! 

"Oh  dear,"  said  the  nice  Wendy,  "I  don't  mean 
a  kiss,  I  mean  a  thimble." 

"What's  that?" 

"It's  like  this."    She  kissed  him. 

"Funny!"  said  Peter  gravely.  "Now  shall  I 
give  you  a  thimble1?" 

"If  you  wish  to,"  said  Wendy,  keeping  her  head 
erect  this  time. 

Peter  thimbled  her,  and  almost  immediately  she 
screeched.  "What  is  it,  Wendy*?" 

"It  was  exactly  as  if  some  one  were  pulling  my 
hair." 

"That  must  have  been  Tink.  I  never  knew  her 
so  naughty  before." 

And  indeed  Tink  was  darting  about  again,  using 
offensive  language. 

"She  says  she  will  do  that  to  you,  Wendy,  every 
time  I  give  you  a  thimble." 

"But  why?" 

"Why,  Tink?" 

Again  Tink  replied,  "You  silly  ass."  Peter 
could  not  understand  why,  but  Wendy  under- 
stood, and  she  was  just  slightly  disappointed  when 
he  admitted  that  he  came  to  the  nursery  window 
not  to  see  her  but  to  listen  to  stories. 

"You  see  I  don't  know  any  stories.  None  of 
the  lost  boys  know  any  stories." 

"How  perfectly  awful,"  Wendy  said. 

"Do  you  know,"  Peter  asked,  "why  swallows 

39 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

build  in  the  eaves  of  houses'?  It  is  to  listen  to  the 
stories.  O  Wendy,  your  mother  was  telling  you 
such  a  lovely  story." 

"Which  story  was  it?" 

"About  the  prince  who  couldn't  find  the  lady 
who  wore  the  glass  slipper." 

"Peter,"  said  Wendy  excitedly,  "that  was 
Cinderella,  and  he  found  her,  and  they  lived 
happy  ever  after." 

Peter  was  so  glad  that  he  rose  from  the  floor, 
where  they  had  been  sitting,  and  hurried  to  the 
window.  "Where  are  you  going?"  she  cried  with 
misgiving. 

"To  tell  the  other  boys." 

"Don't  go,  Peter,"  she  entreated,  "I  know  such 
lots  of  stories." 

Those  were  her  precise  words,  so  there  can  be 
no  denying  that  it  was  she  who  first  tempted 
him. 

He  came  back,  and  there  was  a  greedy  look  in 
his  eyes  now  which  ought  to  have  alarmed  her, 
but  did  not. 

"Oh,  the  stories  I  could  tell  to  the  boys!"  she 
cried,  and  then  Peter  gripped  her  and  began  to 
draw  her  toward  the  window. 

"Let  me  go!"  she  ordered  him. 

"Wendy,  do  come  with  me  and  tell  the  other 
boys." 

Of  course  she  was  very  pleased  to  be  asked,  but 
40 


COME  AWAY,  COME  AWAY! 

she  said,  "Oh  dear,  I  can't.  Think  of  mummy! 
Besides,  I  can't  fly." 

"I'll  teach  you." 

"Oh,  how  lovely  to  fly." 

"I'll  teach  you  how  to  jump  on  the  wind's  back, 
and  then  away  we  go." 

"Oo !"  she  exclaimed  rapturously. 

"Wendy,  Wendy,  when  you  are  sleeping  in 
your  silly  bed  you  might  be  flying  about  with  me 
saying  funny  things  to  the  stars." 

"Oo !" 

"And,  Wendy,  there  are  mermaids." 

"Mermaids!    With  tails?" 

"Such  long  tails." 

"Oh,"  cried  Wendy,  "to  see  a  mermaid!" 

He  had  become  frightfully  cunning.  "Wendy," 
he  said,  "how  we  should  all  respect  you." 

She  was  wriggling  her  body  in  distress.  It  was 
quite  as  if  she  were  trying  to  remain  on  the  nurs- 
ery floor. 

But  he  had  no  pity  for  her. 

"Wendy,"  he  said,  the  sly  one,  "you  could  tuck 
us  in  at  night." 

"Oo !" 

"None  of  us  has  ever  been  tucked  in  at  night." 

"Oo,"  and  her  arms  went  out  to  him. 

"And  you  could  darn  our  clothes,  and  make 
pockets  for  us.  None  of  us  has  any  pockets." 

How  could  she  resist.     "Of  course  it's  awfully 

41 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

fascinating!"  she  cried.  "Peter,  would  you  teach 
John  and  Michael  to  fly  too*?" 

"If  you  like,"  he  said  indifferently,  and  she  ran 
to  John  and  Michael  and  shook  them.  "Wake 
up,"  she  cried,  "Peter  Pan  has  come  and  he  is  to 
teach  us  to  fly." 

John  rubbed  his  eyes.  "Then  I  shall  get  up," 
he  said.  Of  course  he  was  on  the  floor  already. 
"Hallo,"  he  said,  "I  am  up!" 

Michael  was  up  by  this  time  also,  looking  as 
sharp  as  a  knife  with  six  blades  and  a  saw,  but 
Peter  suddenly  signed  silence.  Their  faces  as- 
sumed the  awful  craftiness  of  children  listening 
for  sounds  from  the  grown-up  world.  All  was  as 
still  as  salt.  Then  everything  was  right.  No, 
stop!  Everything  was  wrong.  Nana,  who  had 
been  barking  distressfully  all  the  evening,  was 
quiet  now.  It  was  her  silence  they  had  heard ! 

"Out  with  the  light!  Hide!  Quick!"  cried 
John,  taking  command  for  the  only  time  through- 
out the  whole  adventure.  And  thus  when  Liza 
entered,  holding  Nana,  the  nursery  seemed  quite 
its  old  self,  very  dark,  and  you  could  have  sworn 
you  heard  its  three  wicked  inmates  breathing  an- 
gelically as  they  slept.  They  were  really  doing  it 
artfully  from  behind  the  window  curtains. 

Liza  was  in  a  bad  temper,  for  she  was  mixing 
the  Christmas  puddings  in  the  kitchen,  and  had 
been  drawn  away  from  them,  with  a  raisin  still  on 

42 


COME  AWAY,  COME  AWAY! 

her  cheek,  by  Nana's  absurd  suspicions.  She 
thought  the  best  way  of  getting  a  little  quiet  was 
to  take  Nana  to  the  nursery  for  a  moment,  but  in 
custody  of  course. 

"There,  you  suspicious  brute,"  she  said,  not 
sorry  that  Nana  was  in  disgrace.  "They  are  per- 
fectly safe,  aren't  they*?  Every  one  of  the  little 
angels  sound  asleep  in  bed.  Listen  to  their  gentle 
breathing." 

Here  Michael,  encouraged  by  his  success, 
breathed  so  loudly  that  they  were  nearly  detected. 
Nana  knew  that  kind  of  breathing,  and  she  tried 
to  drag  herself  out  of  Liza's  clutches. 

But  Liza  was  dense.  "No  more  of  it,  Nana," 
she  said  sternly,  pulling  her  out  of  the  room.  "I 
warn  you  if  you  bark  again  I  shall  go  straight  for 
master  and  missus  and  bring  them  home  from  the 
party,  and  then,  oh,  won't  master  whip  you,  just." 

She  tied  the  unhappy  dog  up  again,  but  do  you 
think  Nana  ceased  to  bark?  Bring  master  and 
missus  home  from  the  party1?  Why,  that  was  just 
what  she  wanted.  Do  you  think  she  cared  whether 
she  was  whipped  so  long  as  her  charges  were  safe? 
Unfortunately  Liza  returned  to  her  puddings,  and 
Nana,  seeing  that  no  help  would  come  from  her, 
strained  and  strained  at  the  chain  until  at  last  she 
broke  it.  In  another  moment  she  had  burst  into 
the  dining-room  of  27  and  flung  up  her  paws  to 
heaven,  her  most  expressive  way  of  making  a  com- 

43 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

munication.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Darling  knew  at  once 
that  something  terrible  was  happening  in  their 
nursery,  and  without  a  good-bye  to  their  hostess 
they  rushed  into  the  street. 

But  it  was  now  ten  minutes  since  three  scoun- 
drels had  been  breathing  behind  the  curtains,  and 
Peter  Pan  can  do  a  great  deal  in  ten  minutes. 

We  now  return  to  the  nursery. 

"It's  all  right,"  John  announced,  emerging 
from  his  hiding-place.  "I  say,  Peter,  can  you 
really  fly?" 

Instead  of  troubling  to  answer  him  Peter  flew 
round  the  room,  taking  the  mantelpiece  on  the 
way. 

"How  topping!"  said  John  and  Michael. 

"How  sweet!"  cried  Wendy. 

"Yes,  I'm  sweet,  oh,  I  am  sweet!"  said  Peter, 
forgetting  his  manners  again. 

It  looked  delightfully  easy,  and  they  tried  it 
first  from  the  floor  and  then  from  the  beds,  but 
they  always  went  down  instead  of  up. 

"I  say,  how  do  you  do  it?"  asked  John,  rubbing 
his  knee.  He  was  quite  a  practical  boy. 

"You  just  think  lovely  wonderful  thoughts," 
Peter  explained,  "and  they  lift  you  up  in  the  air." 

He  showed  them  again. 

"You're  so  nippy  at  it,"  John  said,  "couldn't 
you  do  it  very  slowly  once?" 

Peter  did  it  both  slowly  and  quickly.    "I've  got 

44 


COME  AWAY,  COME  AWAY! 

it  now,  Wendy!"  cried  John,  but  soon  he  found 
he  had  not  Not  one  of  them  could  fly  an  inch, 
though  even  Michael  was  in  words  of  two  syl- 
lables, and  Peter  did  not  know  A  from  Z. 

Of  course  Peter  had  been  trifling  with  them,  for 
no  one  can  fly  unless  the  fairy  dust  has  been  blown 
on  him.  Fortunately,  as  we  have  mentioned,  one 
of  his  hands  was  messy  with  it,  and  he  blew  some 
on  each  of  them,  with  the  most  superb  results. 

"Now  just  wriggle  your  shoulders  this  way," 
he  said,  "and  let  go." 

They  were  all  on  their  beds,  and  gallant  Mi- 
chael let  go  first.  He  did  not  quite  mean  to  let  go, 
but  he  did  it,  and  immediately  he  was  borne 
across  the  room. 

"I  flewed!"  he  screamed  while  still  in  mid-air. 
John  let  go  and  met  Wendy  near  the  bath- 
room. 

"Oh,  lovely!" 

"Oh,  ripping!" 

"Look  at  me!" 

"Look  at  me!" 

"Look  at  me!" 

They  were  not  nearly  so  elegant  as  Peter,  they 
could  not  help  kicking  a  little,  but  their  heads 
were  bobbing  against  the  ceiling,  and  there  is  al- 
most nothing  so  delicious  as  that.  Peter  gave 
Wendy  a  hand  at  first,  but  had  to  desist,  Tink  was 
so  indignant. 

45 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

Up  and  down  they  went,  and  round  and  round. 
Heavenly  was  Wendy's  word. 

"I  say,"  cried  John,  "why  shouldn't  we  all  go 
out!" 

Of  course  it  was  to  this  that  Peter  had  been 
luring  them. 

Michael  was  ready:  he  wanted  to  see  how  long 
it  took  him  to  do  a  billion  miles.  But  Wendy 
hesitated. 

"Mermaids !"  said  Peter  again. 

"Oo!" 

"And  there  are  pirates." 

"Pirates,"  cried  John,  seizing  his  Sunday  hat, 
"let  us  go  at  once !" 

It  was  just  at  this  moment  that  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Darling  hurried  with  Nana  out  of  27.  They  ran 
into  the  middle  of  the  street  to  look  up  at  the 
nursery  window ;  and,  yes,  it  was  still  shut,  but  the 
room  was  ablaze  with  light,  and  most  heart-grip- 
ping sight  of  all,  they  could  see  in  shadow  on  the 
curtain  three  little  figures  in  night  attire  circling 
round  and  round,  not  on  the  floor  but  in  the  air. 

Not  three  figures,  four ! 

In  a  tremble  they  opened  the  street  door.  Mr. 
Darling  would  have  rushed  upstairs,  but  Mrs. 
Darling  signed  to  him  to  go  softly.  She  even  tried 
to  make  her  heart  go  softly. 

Will  they  reach  the  nursery  in  time?  If  so,  how 
delightful  for  them,  and  we  shall  all  breathe  a 


COME  AWAY,  COME  AWAY! 

sigh  of  relief,  but  there  will  be  no  story.  On  the 
other  hand,  if  they  are  not  in  time,  I  solemnly 
promise  that  it  will  all  come  right  in  the  end. 

They  would  have  reached  the  nursery  in  time 
had  it  not  been  that  the  little  stars  were  watch- 
ing them.  Once  again  the  stars  blew  the  window 
open,  and  that  smallest  star  of  all  called  out : 

"Cave,  Peter!" 

Peter  knew  that  there  was  not  a  moment  to 
lose.  "Come,"  he  cried  imperiously,  and  soared 
out  at  once  into  the  night,  followed  by  John  and 
Michael  and  Wendy. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Darling  and  Nana  rushed  into 
the  nursery  too  late.  The  birds  were  flown. 


47 


"SECOND  to  the  right,  and  straight  on  till  morn- 
ing." 

That,  Peter  had  told  Wendy,  was  the  way  to 
the  Neverland;  but  even  birds,  carrying  maps  and 
consulting  them  at  windy  corners,  could  not  have 
sighted  it  with  these  instructions.  Peter,  you  see, 
just  said  anything  that  came  into  his  head. 

At  first  his  companions  trusted  him  implicitly, 
and  so  great  were  the  delights  of  flying  that  they 
wasted  time  circling  round  church  spires  or  any 
other  tall  objects  on  the  way  that  took  their  fancy. 

John  and  Michael  raced,  Michael  getting  a 
start. 

They  recalled  with  contempt  that  not  so  long 
ago  they  had  thought  themselves  fine  fellows  for 
being  able  to  fly  round  a  room. 

Not  so  long  ago.  But  how  long  ago1?  They 
were  flying  over  the  sea  before  this  thought  began 
to  disturb  Wendy  seriously.  John  thought  it  was 
their  second  sea  and  their  third  night. 


THE  FLIGHT 

Sometimes  it  was  dark  and  sometimes  light, 
and  now  they  were  very  cold  and  again  too  warm. 
Did  they  really  feel  hungry  at  times,  or  were  they 
merely  pretending,  because  Peter  had  such  a  jolly 
new  way  of  feeding  them1?  His  way  was  to  pur- 
sue birds  who  had  food  in  their  mouths  suitable 
for  humans  and  snatch  it  from  them;  then  the 
birds  would  follow  and  snatch  it  back;  and  they 
would  all  go  chasing  each  other  gaily  for  miles, 
parting  at  last  with  mutual  expressions  of  good- 
will. But  Wendy  noticed  with  gentle  concern 
that  Peter  did  not  seem  to  know  that  this  was 
rather  an  odd  way  of  getting  your  bread  and  but- 
ter, nor  even  that  there  are  other  ways. 

Certainly  they  did  not  pretend  to  be  sleepy, 
they  were  sleepy;  and  that  was  a  danger,  for  the 
moment  they  popped  off,  down  they  fell.  The 
awful  thing  was  that  Peter  thought  this  funny. 

"There  he  goes  again!"  he  would  cry  gleefully, 
as  Michael  suddenly  dropped  like  a  stone. 

"Save  him,  save  him!"  cried  Wendy,  looking 
with  horror  at  the  cruel  sea  far  below.  Eventually 
Peter  would  dive  through  the  air,  and  catch  Mi- 
chael just  before  he  could  strike  the  sea,  and  it 
was  lovely  the  way  he  did  it ;  but  he  always  waited 
till  the  last  moment,  and  you  felt  it  was  his  clev- 
erness that  interested  him  and  not  the  saving  of 
human  life.  Also  he  was  fond  of  variety,  and  the 
sport  that  engrossed  him  one  moment  would  sud- 

49 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

denly  cease  to  engage  him,  so  there  was  always  the 
possibility  that  the  next  time  you  fell  he  would  let 
you  go. 

He  could  sleep  in  the  air  without  falling,  by 
merely  lying  on  his  back  and  floating,  but  this 
was,  partly  at  least,  because  he  was  so  light  that  if 
you  got  behind  him  and  blew  he  went  faster. 

"Do  be  more  polite  to  him,"  Wendy  whispered 
to  John,  when  they  were  playing  "Follow  my 
Leader." 

"Then  tell  him  to  stop  showing  off,"  said  John. 

When  playing  Follow  my  Leader,  Peter  would 
fly  close  to  the  water  and  touch  each  shark's  tail  in 
passing,  just  as  in  the  street  you  may  run  your 
finger  along  an  iron  railing.  They  could  not  fol- 
low him  in  this  with  much  success,  so  perhaps  it 
was  rather  like  showing  off,  especially  as  he  kept 
looking  behind  to  see  how  many  tails  they  missed. 

"You  must  be  nice  to  him,"  Wendy  impressed 
on  her  brothers.  "What  could  we  do  if  he  were 
to  leave  us!" 

"We  could  go  back,"  Michael  said. 

"How  could  we  ever  find  our  way  back  without 
him?' 

"Well,  then,  we  could  go  on,"  said  John. 

"That  is  the  awful  thing,  John.  We  should 
have  to  go  on,  for  we  don't  know  how  to  stop." 

This  was  true,  Peter  had  forgotten  to  show  them 
how  to  stop. 

50 


THE  FLIGHT 

John  said  that  if  the  worst  came  to  the  worst, 
all  they  had  to  do  was  to  go  straight  on,  for  the 
world  was  round,  and  so  in  time  they  must  come 
back  to  their  own  window. 

"And  who  is  to  get  food  for  us,  John1?" 

"I  nipped  a  bit  out  of  that  eagle's  mouth  pretty 
neatly,  Wendy." 

"After  the  twentieth  try,"  Wendy  reminded 
him.  "And  even  though  we  became  good  at  pick- 
ing up  food,  see  how  we  bump  against  clouds  and 
things  if  he  is  not  near  to  give  us  a  hand." 

Indeed  they  were  constantly  bumping.  They 
could  now  fly  strongly,  though  they  still  kicked 
far  too  much;  but  if  they  saw  a  cloud  in 
front  of  them,  the  more  they  tried  to  avoid 
it,  the  more  certainly  did  they  bump  into  it. 
If  Nana  had  been  with  them,  she  would  have  had 
a  bandage  round  Michael's  forehead  by  this 
time. 

Peter  was  not  with  them  for  the  moment,  and 
they  felt  rather  lonely  up  there  by  themselves.  He 
could  go  so  much  faster  than  they  that  he  would 
suddenly  shoot  out  of  sight,  to  have  some  adven- 
ture in  which  they  had  no  share.  He  would  come 
down  laughing  over  something  fearfully  funny 
he  had  been  saying  to  a  star,  but  he  had  already 
forgotten  what  it  was,  or  he  would  come  up  with 
mermaid  scales  still  sticking  to  him,  and  yet  not 
be  able  to  say  for  certain  what  had  been  happen- 

51 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

ing.  It  was  really  rather  irritating  to  children 
who  had  never  seen  a  mermaid. 

"And  if  he  forgets  them  so  quickly,"  Wendy 
argued,  "how  can  we  expect  that  he  will  go  on 
remembering  us*?" 

Indeed,  sometimes  when  he  returned  he  did  not 
remember  them,  at  least  not  well.  Wendy  was 
sure  of  it.  She  saw  recognition  come  into  his  eyes 
as  he  was  about  to  pass  them  the  time  of  day  and 
go  on;  once  even  she  had  to  call  him  by  name. 

"I'm  Wendy,"  she  said  agitatedly. 

He  was  very  sorry.  "I  say,  Wendy,"  he  whis- 
pered to  her,  "always  if  you  see  me  forgetting  you, 
just  keep  on  saying  Tm  Wendy/  and  then  I'll  re- 
member." 

Of  course  this  was  rather  unsatisfactory.  How- 
ever, to  make  amends  he  showed  them  how  to  lie 
out  flat  on  a  strong  wind  that  was  going  their  way, 
and  this  was  such  a  pleasant  change  that  they  tried 
it  several  times  and  found  they  could  sleep  thus 
with  security.  Indeed  they  would  have  slept 
longer,  but  Peter  tired  quickly  of  sleeping,  and 
soon  he  would  cry  in  his  captain  voice,  "We  get 
off  here."  So  with  occasional  tiffs,  but  on  the 
whole  rollicking,  they  drew  near  the  Neverland; 
for  after  many  moons  they  did  reach  it,  and,  what 
is  more,  they  had  been  going  pretty  straight  all  the 
time,  not  perhaps  so  much  owing  to  the  guidance 
of  Peter  or  Tink  as  because  the  island  was  out 

52 


THE  FLIGHT 

looking  for  them.     It  is  only  thus  that  any  one 

may  sight  those  magic  shores. 
"There  it  is,"  said  Peter  calmly. 
"Where,  where?" 

"Where  all  the  arrows  are  pointing." 
Indeed  a  million  golden  arrows  were  pointing 

it  out  to  the  children,  all  directed  by  their  friend 

the  sun,  who  wanted  them  to  be  sure  of  their  way 

before  leaving  them  for  the  night. 

Wendy  and  John  and  Michael  stood  on  tip-toe 

in  the  air  to  get  their  first  sight  of  the  island. 

Strange  to  say,  they  all  recognised  it  at  once,  and 

until  fear  fell  upon  them  they  hailed  it,  not  as 

something  long  dreamt  of  and  seen  at  last,  but  as 

a  familiar  friend  to  whom  they  were  returning 

home  for  the  holidays. 

"John,  there's  the  lagoon!" 

"Wendy,  look  at  the  turtles  burying  their  eggs 

in  the  sand." 

"I  say,  John,  I  see  your  flamingo  with  the 

broken  leg!" 

"Look,  Michael,  there's  your  cave!" 

"John,  what's  that  in  the  brushwood?" 

"It's  a  wolf  with  her  whelps.     Wendy,  I  do 

believe  that's  your  little  whelp !" 

"There's  my  boat,  John,  with  her  sides  stove  in !" 
"No,  it  isn't !    Why,  we  burned  your  boat." 
"That's  her,  at  any  rate.    I  say,  John,  I  see  the 

smoke  of  the  redskin  camp !" 

53 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

"Where4?  Show  me,  and  I'll  tell  you  by  the 
way  the  smoke  curls  whether  they  are  on  the  war- 
path." 

"There,  just  across  the  Mysterious  River." 

"I  see  now.  Yes,  they  are  on  the  war-path 
right  enough." 

Peter  was  a  little  annoyed  with  them  for  know- 
ing so  much,  but  if  he  wanted  to  lord  it  over  them 
his  triumph  was  at  hand,  for  have  I  not  told  you 
that  anon  fear  fell  upon  them*? 

It  came  as  the  arrows  went,  leaving  the  island 
in  gloom. 

In  the  old  days  at  home  the  Neverland  had 
always  begun  to  look  a  little  dark  and  threatening 
by  bedtime.  Then  unexplored  patches  arose  in  it 
and  spread,  black  shadows  moved  about  in  them, 
the  roar  of  the  beasts  of  prey  was  quite  different 
now,  and  above  all,  you  lost  the  certainty  that  you 
would  win.  You  were  quite  glad  that  the  night- 
lights  were  in.  You  even  liked  Nana  to  say  that 
this  was  just  the  mantelpiece  over  here,  and  that 
the  Neverland  was  all  make-believe. 

Of  course  the  Neverland  had  been  make-believe 
in  those  days,  but  it  was  real  now,  and  there  were 
no  night-lights,  and  it  was  getting  darker  every 
moment,  and  where  was  Nana"? 

They  had  been  flying  apart,  but  they  huddled 
close  to  Peter  now.  His  careless  manner  had  gone 
at  last,  his  eyes  were  sparkling,  and  a  tingle  went 

54 


THE  FLIGHT 

through  them  every  time  they  touched  his  body. 
They  were  now  over  the  fearsome  island,  flying 
so  low  that  sometimes  a  tree  grazed  their  feet. 
Nothing  horrid  was  visible  in  the  air,  yet  their 
progress  had  become  slow  and  laboured,  exactly  as 
if  they  were  pushing  their  way  through  hostile 
forces.  Sometimes  they  hung  in  the  air  until 
Peter  had  beaten  on  it  with  his  fists. 

"They  don't  want  us  to  land,"  he  explained. 

'  'Who  are  they  ?"  Wendy  whispered,  shuddering. 

But  he  could  not  or  would  not  say.  Tinker 
Bell  had  been  asleep  on  his  shoulder,  but  now  he 
wakened  her  and  sent  her  on  in  front. 

Sometimes  he  poised  himself  in  the  air,  listen- 
ing intently,  with  his  hand  to  his  ear,  and  again 
he  would  stare  down  with  eyes  so  bright  that  they 
seemed  to  bore  two  holes  to  earth.  Having  done 
these  things,  he  went  on  again. 

His  courage  was  almost  appalling.  "Would 
you  like  an  adventure  now,"  he  said  casually  to 
John,  "or  would  you  like  to  have  your  tea  first?" 

Wendy  said  "tea  first"  quickly,  and  Michael 
pressed  her  hand  in  gratitude,  but  the  braver  John 
hesitated. 

"What  kind  of  adventure?"  he  asked  cau- 
tiously. 

"There's  a  pirate  asleep  in  the  pampas  just  be- 
neath us,"  Peter  told  him.  "If  you  like,  we'll  go 
down  and  kill  him." 

55 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

"I  don't  see  him,"  John  said  after  a  long  pause, 

"I  do." 

"Suppose,"  John  said,  a  little  huskily,  "he  were 
to  wake  up." 

Peter  spoke  indignantly.  "You  don't  think  I 
would  kill  him  while  he  was  sleeping!  I  would 
wake  him  first,  and  then  kill  him.  That's  the  way 
I  always  do." 

"I  say !    Do  you  kill  many?" 

"Tons." 

John  said  "how  ripping,"  but  decided  to  have 
tea  first.  He  asked  if  there  were  many  pirates  on 
the  island  just  now,  and  Peter  said  he  had  never 
known  so  many. 

"Who  is  captain  now*?" 

"Hook,"  answered  Peter,  and  his  face  became 
very  stern  as  he  said  that  hated  word. 

"Jas.  Hook?" 

"Ay." 

Then  indeed  Michael  began  to  cry,  and  even 
John  could  speak  in  gulps  only,  for  they  knew 
Hook's  reputation. 

"He  was  Blackbeard's  bo'sun,"  John  whispered 
huskily.  "He  is  the  worst  of  them  all.  He  is  the 
only  man  of  whom  Barbecue  was  afraid." 

"That's  him,"  said  Peter. 

"What  is  he  like ?    Is  he  big?" 

"He  is  not  so  big  as  he  was." 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

56 


THE  FLIGHT 

"I  cut  off  a  bit  of  him." 

"You!" 

"Yes,  me,"  said  Peter  sharply. 

"I  wasn't  meaning  to  be  disrespectful." 

"Oh,  all  right." 

"But,  I  say,  what  bit?" 

"His  right  hand." 

"Then  he  can't  fight  now?" 

"Oh,  can't  he  just!" 

"Left-hander?" 

"He  has  an  iron  hook  instead  of  a  right  hand, 
and  he  claws  with  it." 

"Claws!" 

"I  say,  John,"  said  Peter. 

"Yes." 

"Say,  'Ay,  ay,  sir.'  " 

"Ay,  ay,  sir." 

"There  is  one  thing,"  Peter  continued,  "that 
every  boy  who  serves  under  me  has  to  promise, 
and  so  must  you." 

John  paled. 

"It  is  this,  if  we  meet  Hook  in  open  fight,  you 
must  leave  him  to  me." 

"I  promise,"  John  said  loyally. 

For  the  moment  they  were  feeling  less  eerie,  be- 
cause Tink  was  flying  with  them,  and  in  her  light 
they  could  distinguish  each  other.  Unfortunately 
she  could  not  fly  so  slowly  as  they,  and  so  she  had 
to  go  round  and  round  them  in  a  circle  in  which 

57 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

they  moved  as  in  a  halo.  Wendy  quite  liked  it, 
until  Peter  pointed  out  the  drawback. 

"She  tells  me,"  he  said,  "that  the  pirates  sighted 
us  before  the  darkness  came,  and  got  Long  Tom 
out." 

"The  big  gun?" 

"Yes.  And  of  course  they  must  see  her  light, 
and  if  they  guess  we  are  near  it  they  are  sure  to 
let  fly." 

"Wendy!" 

"John!" 

"Michael !" 

"Tell  her  to  go  away  at  once,  Peter,"  the  three 
cried  simultaneously,  but  he  refused. 

"She  thinks  we  have  lost  the  way,"  he  replied 
stiffly,  "and  she  is  rather  frightened.  You  don't 
think  I  would  send  her  away  all  by  herself  when 
she  is  frightened !" 

For  a  moment  the  circle  of  light  was  broken, 
and  something  gave  Peter  a  loving  little  pinch. 

"Then  tell  her,"  Wendy  begged,  "to  put  out  her 
light." 

"She  can't  put  it  out.  That  is  about  the  only 
thing  fairies  can't  do.  It  just  goes  out  of  itself 
when  she  falls  asleep,  same  as  the  stars." 

"Then  tell  her  to  sleep  at  once,"  John  almost 
ordered. 

"She  can't  sleep  except  when  she's  sleepy.  It's 
the  only  other  thing  fairies  can't  do." 

58 


THE  FLIGHT 

"Seems  to  me,"  growled  John,  "these  are  the 
only  two  things  worth  doing." 

Here  he  got  a  pinch,  but  not  a  loving  one. 

"If  only  one  of  us  had  a  pocket,"  Peter  said, 
"we  could  carry  her  in  it."  However,  they  had 
set  off  in  such  a  hurry  that  there  was  not  a  pocket 
between  the  four  of  them. 

He  had  a  happy  idea.    John's  hat ! 

Tink  agreed  to  travel  by  hat  if  it  was  carried  in 
the  hand.  John  carried  it,  though  she  had  hoped 
to  be  carried  by  Peter.  Presently  Wendy  took  the 
hat,  because  John  said  it  struck  against  his  knee  as 
he  flew;  and  this,  as  we  shall  see,  led  to  mischief, 
for  Tinker  Bell  hated  to  be  under  an  obligation  to 
Wendy. 

In  the  black  topper  the  light  was  completely 
hidden,  and  they  flew  on  in  silence.  It  was  the 
stillest  silence  they  had  ever  known,  broken  once 
by  a  distant  lapping,  which  Peter  explained  was 
the  wild  beasts  drinking  at  the  ford,  and  again  by 
a  rasping  sound  that  might  have  been  the  branches 
of  trees  rubbing  together,  but  he  said  it  was  the 
redskins  sharpening  their  knives. 

Even  these  noises  ceased.  To  Michael  the  lone- 
liness was  dreadful.  "If  only  something  would 
make  a  sound !"  he  cried. 

As  if  in  answer  to  his  request,  the  air  was  rent 
by  the  most  tremendous  crash  he  had  ever  heard. 
The  pirates  had  fired  Long  Ton^at  them. 

~ 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

The  roar  of  it  echoed  through  the  mountains, 
and  the  echoes  seemed  to  cry  savagely,  "Where 
are  they,  where  are  they,  where  are  they*?" 

Thus  sharply  did  the  terrified  three  learn  the 
difference  between  an  island  of  make-believe  and 
the  same  island  come  true. 

When  at  last  the  heavens  were  steady  again, 
John  and  Michael  found  themselves  alone  in  the 
darkness.  John  was  treading  the  air  mechanically, 
and  Michael  without  knowing  how  to  float  was 
floating. 

"Are  you  shot*?"  John  whispered  tremulously. 

"I  haven't  tried  yet,"  Michael  whispered  back. 

We  know  now  that  no  one  had  been  hit.  Peter, 
however,  had  been  carried  by  the  wind  of  the  shot 
far  out  to  sea,  while  Wendy  was  blown  upwards 
with  no  companion  but  Tinker  Bell. 

It  would  have  been  well  for  Wendy  if  at  that 
moment  she  had  dropped  the  hat. 

I  don't  know  whether  the  idea  came  suddenly  to 
Tink,  or  whether  she  had  planned  it  on  the  way, 
but  she  at  once  popped  out  of  the  hat  and  began  to 
lure  Wendy  to  her  destruction. 

Tink  was  not  all  bad:  or,  rather,  she  was  all 
bad  just  now,  but,  on  the  other  hand,  some- 
times she  was  all  good.  Fairies  have  to  be  one 
thing  or  the  other,  because  being  so  small  they  un- 
fortunately have  room  for  one  feeling  only  at  a 
time.  They  are,  however,  allowed  to  change,  only 

60 


THE  FLIGHT 

it  must  be  a  complete  change.  At  present  she  was 
full  of  jealousy  of  Wendy.  What  she  said  in  her 
lovely  tinkle  Wendy  could  not  of  course  under- 
stand, and  I  believe  some  of  it  was  bad  words,  but 
it  sounded  kind,  and  she  flew  back  and  forward, 
plainly  meaning  "Follow  me,  and  all  will  be 
well." 

What  else  could  poor  Wendy  do1?  She  called 
to  Peter  and  John  and  Michael,  and  got  only 
mocking  echoes  in  reply.  She  did  not  yet  know 
that  Tink  hated  her  with  the  fierce  hatred  of  a 
very  woman.  And  so,  bewildered,  and  now  stag- 
gering in  her  flight,  she  followed  Tink  to  her 
doom. 


6r 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  ISLAND  COME  TRUE 

FEELING  that  Peter  was  on  his  way  back,  the 
Neverland  had  again  woke  into  life.  We  ought 
to  use  the  pluperfect  and  say  wakened,  but  woke 
is  better  and  was  always  used  by  Peter. 

In  his  absence  things  are  usually  quiet  on  the 
island.  The  fairies  take  an  hour  longer  in  the 
morning,  the  beasts  attend  to  their  young,  the  red- 
skins feed  heavily  for  six  days  and  nights, 
and  when  pirates  and  lost  boys  meet  they  merely 
bite  their  thumbs  at  each  other.  But  with  the 
coming  of  Peter,  who  hates  lethargy,  they  are  all 
under  way  again:  if  you  put  your  ear  to  the 
ground  now,  you  would  hear  the  whole  island 
seething  with  life. 

On  this  evening  the  chief  forces  of  the  island 
were  disposed  as  follows.  The  lost  boys  were  out 
looking  for  Peter,  the  pirates  were  out  looking  for 
the  lost  boys,  the  redskins  were  out  looking  for  the 
pirates,  and  the  beasts  were  out  looking  for  the 
redskins.  They  were  going  round  and  round  the 

62 


THE  ISLAND  COME  TRUE 

island,  but  they  did  not  meet  because  all  were 
going  at  the  same  rate. 

All  wanted  blood  except  the  boys,  who  liked  it 
as  a  rule,  but  to-night  were  out  to  greet  their  cap- 
tain. The  boys  on  the  island  vary,  of  course,  in 
numbers,  according  as  they  get  killed  and  so  on; 
and  when  they  seem  to  be  growing  up,  which  is 
against  the  rules,  Peter  thins  them  out ;  but  at  this 
time  there  were  six  of  them,  counting  the  twins  as 
two.  Let  us  pretend  to  lie  here  among  the  sugar- 
cane and  watch  them  as  they  steal  by  in  single 
file,  each  with  his  hand  on  his  dagger. 

They  are  forbidden  by  Peter  to  look  in  the  least 
like  him,  and  they  wear  the  skins  of  bears  slain  by 
themselves,  in  which  they  are  so  round  and  furry 
that  when  they  fall  they  roll.  They  have  there- 
fore become  very  sure-footed. 

The  first  to  pass  is  Tootles,  not  the  least  brave 
but  the  most  unfortunate  of  all  that  gallant  band. 
He  had  been  in  fewer  adventures  than  any  of 
them,  because  the  big  things  constantly  happened 
just  when  he  had  stepped  round  the  corner;  all 
would  be  quiet,  he  would  take  the  opportunity  of 
going  off  to  gather  a  few  sticks  for  firewood,  and 
then  when  he  returned  the  others  would  be  sweep- 
ing up  the  blood.  This  ill-luck  had  given  a  gentle 
melancholy  to  his  countenance,  but  instead  of 
souring  his  nature  had  sweetened  it,  so  that  he  was 
quite  the  humblest  of  the  boys.  Poor  kind 

63 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

Tootles,  there  is  danger  in  the  air  for  you  to-night. 
Take  care  lest  an  adventure  is  now  offered  you, 
which,  if  accepted,  will  plunge  you  in  deepest  woe. 
'Tootles,  the  fairy  Tink  who  is  bent  on  mischief 
.this  night  is  looking  for  a  tool,  and  she  thinks  you 
the  most  easily  tricked  of  the  boys.  'Ware  Tinker 
Bell. 

Would  that  he  could  hear  us,  but  we  are  not 
really  on  the  island,  and  he  passes  by,  biting  his 
;knuckles. 

Next  comes  Nibs,  the  gay  and  debonair,  fol- 
lowed by  Slightly,  who  cuts  whistles  out  of  the 
trees  and  dances  ecstatically  to  his  own  tunes. 
.Slightly  is  the  most  conceited  of  the  boys.  He 
thinks  he  remembers  the  days  before  he  was  lost, 
with  their  manners  and  customs,  and  this  has  given 
his  nose  an  offensive  tilt.  Curly  is  fourth ;  he  is  a 
pickle,  and  so  often  has  he  had  to  deliver  up  his 
person  when  Peter  said  sternly,  "Stand  forth  the 
iOne  who  did  this  thing,"  that  now  at  the  command 
he  stands  forth  automatically  whether  he  has  done 
it  or  no.  Last  come  the  Twins,  who  cannot  be 
,  described  because  we  should  be  sure  to  be  describ- 
ing the  wrong  one..  Peter  never  quite  knew  what 
twins  were,  and  ,his  band  were  not  allowed  to 
know  anything  he  did  not  know,  so  these  two  were 
always  vague  about  themselves,  and  did  their  best 
to  give  satisfaction  by  keeping  close  together  in  an 
Apologetic  sort,  of  way. 


THE  ISLAND  COME  TRUE 

The  boys  vanish  in  the  gloom,  and  after  a  pause, 
but  not  a  long  pause,  for  things  go  briskly  on  the 
island,  come  the  pirates  on  their  track.  We  hear 
them  before  they  are  seen,  and  it  is  always  the 
same  dreadful  song: 

"Avast  belay,  yo  ho,  heave  to, 

A-pirating  we  go, 
And  if  we  're  parted  by  a  shot 
We  're  sure  to  meet  below!" 

A  more  villainous-looking  lot  never  hung  in  a 
row  on  Execution  dock.  Here,  a  little  in  advance, 
ever  and  again  with  his  head  to  the  ground  listen- 
ing, his  great  arms  bare,  pieces  of  eight  in  his  ears 
as  ornaments,  is  the  handsome  Italian  Cecco,  who 
cut  his  name  in  letters  of  blood  on  the  back  of  the 
governor  of  the  prison  at  Gao.  That  gigantic 
black  behind  him  has  had  many  names  since  he 
dropped  the  one  with  which  dusky  mothers  still 
terrify  their  children  on  the  banks  of  the  Guadjo- 
mo.  Here  is  Bill  Jukes,  every  inch  of  him  tat- 
tooed, the  same  Bill  Jukes  who  got  six  dozen  on 
the  Walrus  from  Flint  before  he  would  drop  the 
bag  of  moidores;  and  Cookson,  said  to  be  Black 
Murphy's  brother  (but  this  was  never  proved), 
and  Gentleman  Starkey,  once  an  usher  in  a  public 
school  and  still  dainty  in  his  ways  of  killing;  and 
Skylights  (Morgan's  Skylights) ;  and  the  Irish 
bo' sun  Smee,  an  oddly  genial  man  who  stabbed,  so 

65 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

to  speak,  without  offence,  and  was  the  only  Non- 
conformist in  Hook's  crew;  and  Noodler,  whose 
hands  were  fixed  on  backwards;  and  Robt.  Mullins 
and  Alf  Mason  and  many  another  ruffian  long 
known  and  feared  on  the  Spanish  Main. 

In  the  midst  of  them,  the  blackest  and  largest 
jewel  in  that  dark  setting,  reclined  James  Hook, 
or  as  he  wrote  himself,  Jas.  Hook,  of  whom  it  is 
said  he  was  the  only  man  that  the  Sea-Cook  feared. 
He  lay  at  his  ease  in  a  rough  chariot  drawn  and 
propelled  by  his  men,  and  instead  of  a  right  hand 
he  had  the  iron  hook  with  which  ever  and  anon  he 
encouraged  them  to  increase  their  pace.  As  dogs 
this  terrible  man  treated  and  addressed  them,  and 
as  dogs  they  obeyed  him.  In  person  he  was 
cadaverous  and  blackavized,  and  his  hair  was 
dressed  in  long  curls,  which  at  a  little  distance 
looked  like  black  candles,  and  gave  a  singularly 
threatening  expression  to  his  handsome  coun- 
tenance. His  eyes  were  of  the  blue  of  the  forget- 
me-not,  and  of  a  profound  melancholy,  save  when 
he  was  plunging  his  hook  into  you,  at  which  time 
two  red  spots  appeared  in  them  and  lit  them  up 
horribly.  In  manner,  something  of  the  grand 
seigneur  still  clung  to  him,  so  that  he  even  ripped 
you  up  with  an  air,  and  I  have  been  told  that  he 
was  a  raconteur  of  repute.  He  was  never  more 
sinister  than  when  he  was  most  polite,  which  is 
probably  the  truest  test  of  breeding;  and  the  ele- 

66 


THE  ISLAND  COME  TRUE 

gance  of  his  diction,  even  when  he  was  swearing, 
no  less  than  the  distinction  of  his  demeanour, 
showed  him  one  of  a  different  caste  from  his  crew. 
A  man  of  indomitable  courage,  it  was  said  of  him 
that  the  only  thing  he  shied  at  was  the  sight  of  his 
own  blood,  which  was  thick  and  of  an  unusual 
colour.  In  dress  he  somewhat  aped  the  attire  as- 
sociated with  the  name  of  Charles  II.,  having 
heard  it  said  in  some  earlier  period  of  his  career 
that  he  bore  a  strange  resemblance  to  the  ill-fated 
Stuarts;  and  in  his  mouth  he  had  a  holder  of  his 
own  contrivance  which  enabled  him  to  smoke  two 
cigars  at  once.  But  undoubtedly  the  grimmest 
part  of  him  was  his  iron  claw.^ 

Let  us  now  kill  a  pirate,  to  show  Hook's 
method.  Skylights  will  do.  As  they  pass,  Sky- 
lights lurches  clumsily  against  him,  ruffling  his 
lace  collar;  the  hook  shoots  forth,  there  is  a  tear- 
ing sound  and  one  screech,  then  the  body  is  kicked 
aside,  and  the  pirates  pass  on.  He  has  not  even 
taken  the  cigars  from  his  mouth. 

Such  is  the  terrible  man  against  whom  Peter 
Pan  is  pitted.  Which  will  win"? 

On  the  trail  of  the  pirates,  stealing  noiselessly 
down  the  war-path,  which  is  not  visible  to  inex- 
perienced eyes,  come  the  redskins,  every  one  of 
them  with  his  eyes  peeled.  They  carry  tomahawks 
and  knives,  and  their  naked  bodies  gleam  with 
paint  and  oil.  Strung  around  them  are  scalps,  of 

67 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

boys  as  well  as  of  pirates,  for  these  are  the  Pic- 
caninny tribe,  and  not  to  be  confused  with  the 
softer-hearted  Delawares  or  the  Hurons.  In  the 
van,  on  all  fours,  is  Great  Big  Little  Panther,  a 
brave  of  so  many  scalps  that  in  his  present  position 
they  somewhat  impede  his  progress.  Bringing  up 
the  rear,  the  place  of  greatest  danger,  comes  Tiger 
Lily,  proudly  erect,  a  princess  in  her  own  right. 
She  is  the  most  beautiful  of  dusky  Dianas  and  the 
belle  of  the  Piccaninnies,  coquettish,  cold  and 
amorous  by  turns ;  there  is  not  a  brave  who  would 
not  have  the  wayward  thing  to  wife,  but  she 
staves  off  the  altar  with  a  hatchet.  Observe  how 
they  pass  over  fallen  twigs  without  making  the 
slightest  noise.  The  only  sound  to  be  heard  is 
their  somewhat  heavy  breathing.  The  fact  is  that 
they  are  all  a  little  fat  just  now  after  the  heavy 
gorging,  but  in  time  they  will  work  this  off.  For 
the  moment,  however,  it  constitutes  their  chief 
danger. 

The  redskins  disappear  as  they  have  come  like 
shadows,  and  soon  their  place  is  taken  by  the 
beasts,  a  great  and  motley  procession :  lions,  tigers, 
bears,  and  the  innumerable  smaller  savage  things 
that  flee  from  them,  for  every  kind  of  beast,  and, 
more  particularly,  all  the  man-eaters,  live  cheek 
by  jowl  on  the  favoured  island.  Their  tongues  are 
hanging  out,  they  are  hungry  to-night. 

When  they  have  passed,  comes  the  last  figure  of 
68 


THE  ISLAND  COME  TRUE 

all,  a  gigantic  crocodile.  We  shall  see  for  whom 
she  is  looking  presently. 

The  crocodile  passes,  but  soon  the  boys  appear 
again,  for  the  procession  must  continue  indefi- 
nitely until  one  of  the  parties  stops  or  changes  its 
pace.  Then  quickly  they  will  be  on  top  of  each 
other. 

All  are  keeping  a  sharp  look-out  in  front,  but 
none  suspects  that  the  danger  may  be  creeping  up1 
from  behind.  This  shows  how  real  the  island 
was. 

The  first  to  fall  out  of  the  moving  circle  was  the1 
boys.  They  flung  themselves  down  on  the  sward,, 
close  to  their  underground  home. 

"I  do  wish  Peter  would  come  back,"  every  one 
of  them  said  nervously,  though  in  height  and  still 
more  in  breadth  they  were  all  larger  than  their 
captain. 

"I  am  the  only  one  who  is  not  afraid  of  the 
pirates,"  Slightly  said,  in  the  tone  that  prevented 
his  being  a  general  favourite,  but  perhaps  some 
distant  sound  disturbed  him,  for  he  added  hastily, 
"but  I  wish  he  would  come  back,  and  tell  us 
whether  he  has  heard  anything  more  about  Cin- 
derella." 

They  talked  of  Cinderella,  and  Tootles  was  con- 
fident that  his  mother  must  have  been  very  like 
her. 

It  was  only  in  Peter's  absence  that  they  could 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

speak  of  mothers,  the  subject  being  forbidden  by 
him  as  silly. 

"All  I  remember  about  my  mother,"  Nibs  told 
them,  "is  that  she  often  said  to  father,  'Oh,  how  I 
wish  I  had  a  cheque-book  of  my  own!'  I  don't 
know  what  a  cheque-book  is,  but  I  should  just  love 
to  give  my  mother  one." 

While  they  talked  they  heard  a  distant  sound. 
You  or  I,  not  being  wild  things  of  the  woods, 
would  have  heard  nothing,  but  they  heard  it,  and 
it  was  the  grim  song: 

"Yo  ho,  yo  ho,  the  pirate  life, 

The  flag  o'  skull  and  bones, 
A  merry  hour,  a  hempen  rope, 
And  hey  for  Davy  Jones." 

At  once  the  lost  boys— but  where  are  they? 
They  are  no  longer  there.  Rabbits  could  not  have 
disappeared  more  quickly. 

I  will  tell  you  where  they  are.  With  the  ex- 
ception of  Nibs,  who  has  darted  away  to  recon- 
noitre, they  are  already  in  their  home  under  the 
ground,  a  very  delightful  residence  of  which  we 
shall  see  a  good  deal  presently.  But  how  have 
they  reached  it"?  for  there  is  no  entrance  to  be  seen, 
not  so  much  as  a  large  stone,  which  if  rolled  away 
would  disclose  the  mouth  of  a  cave.  Look  closely, 
however,  and  you  may  note  that  there  are  here 
seven  large  trees,  each  with  a  hole  in  its  hollow 

70 


THE  ISLAND  COME  TRUE 

trunk  as  large  as  a  boy.  These  are  the  seven  en- 
trances to  the  home  under  the  ground,  for  which 
Hook  has  been  searching  in  vain  these  many 
moons.  Will  he  find  it  to-night? 

As  the  pirates  advanced,  the  quick  eye  of 
Starkey  sighted  Nibs  disappearing  through  the 
wood,  and  at  once  his  pistol  flashed  out.  But  an 
iron  claw  gripped  his  shoulder. 

"Captain,  let  go !"  he  cried,  writhing. 

Now  for  the  first  time  we  hear  the  voice  of 
Hook.  It  was  a  black  voice.  "Put  back  that  pis- 
tol first,"  it  said  threateningly. 

"It  was  one  of  those  boys  you  hate.  I  could 
have  shot  him  dead." 

"Ay,  and  the  sound  would  have  brought  Tiger 
Lily's  redskins  upon  us.  Do  you  want  to  lose 
your  scalp*?" 

"Shall  I  after  him,  captain,"  asked  pathetic 
Smee,  "and  tickle- him  with  Johnny  Corkscrew?" 
Smee  had  pleasant  names  for  everything,  and  his 
cutlass  was  Johnny  Corkscrew,  because  he  wrig- 
gled it  in  the  wound.  One  could  mention  many 
lovable  traits  in  Smee.  For  instance,  after  killing, 
it  was  his  spectacles  he  wiped  instead  of  his 
weapon. 

"Johnny's  a  silent  fellow,"  he  reminded  Hook. 

"Not  now,  Smee,"  Hook  said  darkly.  "He  is 
only  one,  and  I  want  to  mischief  all  the  seven. 
Scatter  and  look  for  them." 

71 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

The  pirates  disappeared  among  the  trees,  and 
in  a  moment  their  captain  and  Smee  were  alone. 
Hook  heaved  a  heavy  sigh,  and  I  know  not  why  it 
was,  perhaps  it  was  because  of  the  soft  beauty  of 
the  evening,  but  there  came  over  him  a  desire  to 
confide  to  his  faithful  bo'sun  the  story  of  his  life. 
He  spoke  long  and  earnestly,  but  what  it  was  all 
about  Smee,  who  was  rather  stupid,  did  not  know 
in  the  least. 

Anon  he  caught  the  word  Peter. 

"Most  of  all,"  Hook  was  saying  passionately, 
"I  want  their  captain,  Peter  Pan.  'Twas  he  cut 
off  my  arm."  He  brandished  the  hook  threaten- 
ingly. "I've  waited  long  to  shake  his  hand  with 
this.  Oh,  I'll  tear  him!" 

"And  yet,"  said  Smee,  "I  have  often  heard  you 
say  that  hook  was  worth  a  score  of  hands,  for 
combing  the  hair  and  other  homely  uses." 

"Ay,"  the  captain  answered,  "if  I  was  a  mother 
I  would  pray  to  have  my  children  born  with  this 
instead  of  that,"  and  he  cast  a  look  of  pride  upon 
his  iron  hand  and  one  of  scorn  upon  the  other. 
Then  again  he  frowned. 

"Peter  flung  my  arm,"  he  said,  wincing,  "to  a 
crocodile  that  happened  to  be  passing  by." 

"I  have  often,"  said  Smee,  "noticed  your 
strange  dread  of  crocodiles." 

"Not  of  crocodiles,"  Hook  corrected  him,  "but 
of  that  one  crocodile."  He  lowered  his  voice.  "It 

72 


THE  ISLAND  COME  TRUE 

liked  my  arm  so  much,  Smee,  that  it  has  followed 
me  ever  since,  from  sea  to  sea  and  from  land  to 
land,  licking  its  lips  for  the  rest  of  me." 

"In  a  way,"  said  Smee,  "it's  a  sort  of  compli- 
ment." 

"I  want  no  such  compliments,"  Hook  barked 
petulantly.  "I  want  Peter  Pan,  who  first  gave  the 
brute  its  taste  for  me." 

He  sat  down  on  a  large  mushroom,  and  now 
there  was  a  quiver  in  his  voice.  "Smee,"  he  said 
huskily,  "that  crocodile  would  have  had  me  before 
this,  but  by  a  lucky  chance  it  swallowed  a  clock 
which  goes  tick  tick  inside  it,  and  so  before  it  can 
reach  me  I  hear  the  tick  and  bolt."  He  laughed, 
but  in  a  hollow  way. 

"Some  day,"  said  Smee,  "the  clock  will  run 
down,  and  then  he'll  get  you." 

Hook  wetted  his  dry  lips.  "Ay,"  he  said, 
"that's  the  fear  that  haunts  me." 

Since  sitting  down  he  had  felt  curiously  warm. 
"Smee,"  he  said,  "this  seat  is  hot."  He  jumped 
up.  "Odds  bobs,  hammer  and  tongs,  I'm  burning." 

They  examined  the  mushroom,  which  was  of  a 
size  and  solidity  unknown  on  the  mainland;  they 
tried  to  pull  it  up,  and  it  came  away  at  once  in 
their  hands,  for  it  had  no  root.  Stranger  still, 
smoke  began  at  once  to  ascend.  The  pirates 
looked  at  each  other.  "A  chimney!"  they  both 
exclaimed. 

73 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

They  had  indeed  discovered  the  chimney  of  the 
home  under  the  ground.  It  was  the  custom  of  the 
boys  to  stop  it  with  a  mushroom  when  enemies 
were  in  the  neighbourhood. 

Not  only  smoke  came  out  of  it.  There  came 
also  children's  voices,  for  so  safe  did  the  boys  feel 
in  their  hiding-place  that  they  were  gaily  chatter- 
ing. The  pirates  listened  grimly,  and  then  re- 
placed the  mushroom.  They  looked  around  them 
and  noted  the  holes  in  the  seven  trees. 

"Did  you  hear  them  say  Peter  Pan's  from 
home1?"  Smee  whispered,  fidgeting  with  Johnny 
Corkscrew. 

Hook  nodded.  He  stood  for  a  long  time  lost 
in  thought,  and  at  last  a  curdling  smile  lit  up  his 
swarthy  face.  Smee  had  been  waiting  for  it. 
"Unrip  your  plan,  captain,"  he  cried  eagerly. 

"To  return  to  the  ship,"  Hook  replied  slowly 
through  his  teeth,  "and  cook  a  large  rich  cake  of 
a  jolly  thickness  with  green  sugar  on  it.  There 
can  be  but  one  room  below,  for  there  is  but  one 
chimney.  The  silly  moles  had  not  the  sense  to  see 
that  they  did  not  need  a  door  apiece.  That  shows 
they  have  no  mother.  We  will  leave  the  cake  on  the 
shore  of  the  Mermaids'  Lagoon.  These  boys  are 
always  swimming  about  there,  playing  with  the 
mermaids.  They  will  find  the  cake  and  they  will 
gobble  it  up,  because,  having  no  mother,  they  don't 
know  how  dangerous  'tis  to  eat  rich  damp  cake." 

74 


THE  ISLAND  COME  TRUE 

He  burst  into  laughter,  not  hollow  laughter  now, 
but  honest  laughter.  "Aha,  they  will  die !" 

Smee  had  listened  with  growing  admiration. 

"It's  the  wickedest,  prettiest  policy  ever  I  heard 
of!"  he  cried,  and  in  their  exultation  they  danced 
and  sang : 

"Avast,  belay,  when  I  appear, 

By  fear  they're  overtook, 
Nought's  left  upon  your  bones  when  you 
Have  shaken  claws  with  Cook." 

They  began  the  verse,  but  they  never  finished 
it,  for  another  sound  broke  in  and  stilled  them.  It 
was  at  first  such  a  tiny  sound  that  a  leaf  might 
have  fallen  on  it  and  smothered  it,  but  as  it  came 
nearer  it  was  more  distinct. 

Tick  tick  tick  tick ! 

Hook  stood  shuddering,  one  foot  in  the  air. 

"The  crocodile !"  he  gasped,  and  bounded  away, 
followed  by  his  bo' sun. 

It  was  indeed  the  crocodile.  It  had  passed  the 
redskins,  who  were  now  on  the  trail  of  the  other 
pirates.  It  oozed  on  after  Hook. 

Once  more  the  boys  emerged  into  the  open ;  but 
the  dangers  of  the  night  were  not  yet  over,  for 
presently  Nibs  rushed  breathless  into  their  midst, 
pursued  by  a  pack  of  wolves.  The  tongues  of  the 
pursuers  were  hanging  out;  the  baying  of  them 
was  horrible. 

75 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

"Save  me,  save  me !"  cried  Nibs,  falling  on  the 
ground. 

"But  what  can  we  do,  what  can  we  do?" 

It  was  a  high  compliment  to  Peter  that  at  that 
dire  moment  their  thoughts  turned  to  him. 

"What  would  Peter  do1?"  they  cried  simul- 
taneously. 

Almost  in  the  same  breath  they  cried,  "Peter 
would  look  at  them  through  his  legs." 

And  then,  "Let  us  do  what  Peter  would  do." 

It  is  quite  the  most  successful  way  of  defying 
wolves,  and  as  one  boy  they  bent  and  looked 
through  their  legs.  The  next  moment  is  the  long 
one,  but  victory  came  quickly,  for  as  the  boys  ad- 
vanced upon  them  in  this  terrible  attitude,  the 
wolves  dropped  their  tails  and  fled. 

Now  Nibs  rose  from  the  ground,  and  the  others 
thought  that  his  staring  eyes  still  saw  the  wolves. 
But  it  was  not  wolves  he  saw. 

"I  have  seen  a  wonderfuller  thing,"  he  cried,  as 
they  gathered  round  him  eagerly.  "A  great  white 
bird.  It  is  flying  this  way." 

"What  kind  of  a  bird,  do  you  think?' 

"I  don't  know,"  Nibs  said,  awestruck,  "but  it 
looks  so  weary,  and  as  it  flies  it  moans,  'Poor 
Wendy.'  " 

"Poor  Wendy?" 

"I  remember,"  said  Slightly  instantly,  "there 
are  birds  called  Wendies." 


THE  ISLAND  COME  TRUE 

"See,  it  comes!"  cried  Curly,  pointing  to 
Wendy  in  the  heavens. 

Wendy  was  now  almost  overhead,  and  they 
could  hear  her  plaintive  cry.  But  more  distinct 
came  the  shrill  voice  of  Tinker  Bell.  The  jealous 
fairy  had  now  cast  off  all  disguise  of  friendship, 
and  was  darting  at  her  victim  from  every  direc- 
tion, pinching  savagely  each  time  she  touched. 

"Hullo,  Tink,"  cried  the  wondering  boys. 

Tink's  reply  rang  out:  "Peter  wants  you  to 
shoot  the  Wendy." 

It  was  not  in  their  nature  to  question  when 
Peter  ordered.  "Let  us  do  what  Peter  wishes," 
cried  the  simple  boys.  "Quick,  bows  and  arrows !" 

All  but  Tootles  popped  down  their  trees.  He 
had  a  bow  and  arrow  with  him,  and  Tink  noted  it, 
and  rubbed  her  little  hands. 

"Quick,  Tootles,  quick,"  she  screamed.  "Peter 
will  be  so  pleased." 

Tootles  excitedly  fitted  the  arrow  to  his  bow. 
"Out  of  the  way,  Tink,"  he  shouted,  and  then  he 
fired,  and  Wendy  fluttered  to  the  ground  with  an 
arrow  in  her  breast. 


77 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

FOOLISH  Tootles  was  standing  like  a  conqueror 
over  Wendy's  body  when  the  other  boys  sprang, 
armed,  from  their  trees. 

"You  are  too  late,"  he  cried  proudly,  "I  have 
shot  the  Wendy.  Peter  will  be  so  pleased  with 
me." 

Overhead  Tinker  Bell  shouted  "Silly  ass!"  and 
darted  into  hiding.  The  others  did  not  hear  her. 

They  had  crowded  round  Wendy,  and  as  they 
looked  a  terrible  silence  fell  upon  the  wood.  If 
Wendy's  heart  had  been  beating  they  would  all 
have  heard  it. 

Slightly  was  the  first  to  speak.  "This  is  no 
bird,"  he  said  in  a  scared  voice.  "I  think  it  must 
be  a  lady." 

"A  lady*?"  said  Tootles,  and  fell  a-trembling. 

"And  we  have  killed  her,"  Nibs  said  hoarsely. 

They  all  whipped  off  their  caps. 

"Now  I  see,"  Curly  said;  "Peter  was  bringing 
her  to  us."  He  threw  himself  sorrowfully  on  the 
ground. 

78 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

"A  lady  to  take  care  of  us  at  last,"  said  one  of 
the  twins,  "and  you  have  killed  her !" 

They  were  sorry  for  him,  but  sorrier  for  them- 
selves, and  when  he  took  a  step  nearer  them  they 
turned  from  him. 

Tootles'  face  was  very  white,  but  there  was  a  dig- 
nity about  him  now  that  had  never  been  there  before. 

"I  did  it,"  he  said,  reflecting.  "When  ladies 
used  to  come  to  me  in  dreams,  I  said,  'Pretty 
mother,  pretty  mother.'  But  when  at  last  she 
really  came,  I  shot  her." 

He  moved  slowly  away. 

"Don't  go,"  they  called  in  pity. 

"I  must,"  he  answered,  shaking;  "I  am  so  afraid 
of  Peter." 

It  was  at  this  tragic  moment  that  they  heard  a 
sound  which  made  the  heart  of  every  one  of  them 
rise  to  his  mouth.  They  heard  Peter  crow. 

"Peter !"  they  cried,  for  it  was  always  thus  that 
he  signalled  his  return. 

"Hide  her,"  they  whispered,  and  gathered 
hastily  around  Wendy.  But  Tootles  stood  aloof. 

Again  came  that  ringing  crow,  and  Peter 
dropped  in  front  of  them.  "Greeting,  boys,"  he 
cried,  and  mechanically  they  saluted,  and  then 
again  was  silence. 

He  frowned. 

"I  am  back,"  he  said  hotly,  "why  do  you  not 
cheer?" 

79 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

They  opened  their  mouths,  but  the  cheers  would 
not  come.  He  overlooked  it  in  his  haste  to  tell  the 
glorious  tidings. 

"Great  news,  boys,"  he  cried,  "I  have  brought 
at  last  a  mother  for  you  all." 

Still  no  sound,  except  a  little  thud  from 
Tootles  as  he  dropped  on  his  knees. 

"Have  you  not  seen  her*?"  asked  Peter,  becom- 
ing troubled.  "She  flew  this  way." 

"Ah  me!"  one  voice  said,  and  another  said, 
"Oh,  mournful  day." 

Tootles  rose.  "Peter,"  he  said  quietly,  "I  will 
show  her  to  you,"  and  when  the  others  would  still 
have  hidden  her  he  said,  "Back,  twins,  let  Peter  see." 

So  they  all  stood  back,  and  let  him  see,  and  after 
he  had  looked  for  a  little  time  he  did  not  know 
what  to  do  next. 

"She  is  dead,"  he  said  uncomfortably.  "Per- 
haps she  is  frightened  at  being  dead." 

He  thought  of  hopping  off  in  a  comic  sort  of 
way  till  he  was  out  of  sight  of  her,  and  then  never 
going  near  the  spot  any  more.  They  would  all 
have  been  glad  to  follow  if  he  had  done  this. 

But  there  was  the  arrow.  He  took  it  from  her 
heart  and  faced  his  band. 

"Whose  arrow?"  he  demanded  sternly. 

"Mine,  Peter,"  said  Tootles  on  his  knees. 

"Oh,  dastard  hand,"  Peter  said,  and  he  raised 
the  arrow  to  use  it  as  a  dagger. 
•      80 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

Tootles  did  not  flinch.  He  bared  his  breast. 
"Strike,  Peter,"  he  said  firmly,  "strike  true." 

Twice  did  Peter  raise  the  arrow,  and  twice  did 
his  hand  fall.  "I  cannot  strike,"  he  said  with 
awe,  "there  is  something  stays  my  hand." 

All  looked  at  him  in  wonder,  save  Nibs,  who 
fortunately  looked  at  Wendy. 

"It  is  she,"  he  cried,  "the  Wendy  lady,  see,  her 
arm!" 

Wonderful  to  relate,  Wendy  had  raised  her 
arm.  Nibs  bent  over  her  and  listened  reverently. 
"I  think  she  said  Toor  Tootles,'  "  he  whispered. 

"She  lives,"  Peter  said  briefly. 

Slightly  cried  instantly,  "The  Wendy  lady 
lives." 

Then  Peter  knelt  beside  her  and  found  his  but- 
ton. You  remember  she  had  put  it  on  a  chain  that 
she  wore  round  her  neck. 

"See,"  he  said,  "the  arrow  struck  against  this. 
It  is  the  kiss  I  gave  her.  It  has  saved  her  life." 

"I  remember  kisses,"  Slightly  interposed 
quickly,  "let  me  see  it.  Ay,  that's  a  kiss." 

Peter  did  not  hear  him.  He  was  begging 
Wendy  to  get  better  quickly,  so  that  he  could 
show  her  the  mermaids.  Of  course  she  could  not 
answer  yet,  being  still  in  a  frightful  faint;  but 
from  overhead  came  a  wailing  note. 

"Listen  to  Tink,"  said  Curly,  "she  is  crying  be- 
cause the  Wendy  lives." 

81 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

Then  they  had  to  tell  Peter  of  Tink's  crime,  and 
almost  never  had  they  seen  him  look  so  stern. 

"Listen,  Tinker  Bell,"  he  cried,  "I  am  your 
friend  no  more.  Begone  from  me  for  ever." 

She  flew  on  to  his  shoulder  and  pleaded,  but  he 
brushed  her  off.  Not  until  Wendy  again  raised 
her  arm  did  he  relent  sufficiently  to  say,  "Well, 
not  for  ever,  but  for  a  whole  week." 

Do  you  think  Tinker  Bell  was  grateful  to 
Wendy  for  raising  her  arm?  Oh  dear  no,  never 
wanted  to  pinch  her  so  much.  Fairies  indeed  are 
strange,  and  Peter,  who  understood  them  best, 
often  cuffed  them. 

But  what  to  do  with  Wendy  in  her  present 
delicate  state  of  health? 

"Let  us  carry  her  down  into  the  house,"  Curly 
suggested. 

"Ay,"  said  Slightly,  "that  is  what  one  does  with 
ladies." 

"No,  no,"  Peter  said,  "you  must  not  touch  her. 
It  would  not  be  sufficiently  respectful." 

"That,"  said  Slightly,  "is  what  I  was  thinking." 

"But  if  she  lies  there,"  Tootles  said,  "she  will 
die." 

"Ay,  she  will  die,"  Slightly  admitted,  "but 
there  is  no  way  out." 

"Yes,  there  is,"  cried  Peter.  "Let  us  build  a 
little  house  round  her." 

They  were  all  delighted.     "Quick,"  he  ordered 

82 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

them,  "bring  me  each  of  you  the  best  of  what  we 
have.  Gut  our  house.  Be  sharp." 

In  a  moment  they  were  as  busy  as  tailors  the 
night  before  a  wedding.  They  skurried  this  way 
and  that,  down  for  bedding,  up  for  firewood,  and 
while  they  were  at  it,  who  should  appear  but  John 
and  Michael.  As  they  dragged  along  the  ground 
they  fell  asleep  standing,  stopped,  woke  up, 
moved  another  step  and  slept  again. 

"John,  John,"  Michael  would  cry,  "wake  up! 
Where  is  Nana,  John,  and  mother?" 

And  then  John  would  rub  his  eyes  and  mutter, 
"It  is  true,  we  did  fly." 

You  may  be  sure  they  were  very  relieved  to  find 
Peter. 

"Hullo,  Peter,"  they  said. 

"Hullo,"  replied  Peter  amicably,  though  he  had 
quite  forgotten  them.  He  was  very  busy  at  the 
moment  measuring  Wendy  with  his  feet  to  see  how 
large  a  house  she  would  need.  Of  course  he  meant 
to  leave  room  for  chairs  and  a  table.  John  and 
Michael  watched  him. 

"Is  Wendy  asleep?"  they  asked. 

"Yes." 

"John,"  Michael  proposed,  "let  us  wake  her 
and  get  her  to  make  supper  for  us,"  and  as  he  said 
it  some  of  the  other  boys  rushed  on  carrying 
branches  for  the  building  of  the  house.  "Look  at 
them!"  he  cried. 

83 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

"Curly,"  said  Peter  in  his  most  captainy  voice, 
"see  that  these  boys  help  in  the  building  of  the 
house." 

"Ay,  ay,  sir." 

"Build  a  house*?"  exclaimed  John. 

"For  the  Wendy,"  said  Curly. 

"For  Wendy?"  John  said,  aghast.  "Why,  she 
is  only  a  girl !" 

"That,"  explained  Curly,  "is  why  we  are  her 
servants." 

"You?    Wendy's  servants !" 

"Yes,"  said  Peter,  "and  you  also.  Away  with 
them." 

The  astounded  brothers  were  dragged  away  to 
hack  and  hew  and  carry.  "Chairs  and  a  fender 
first,"  Peter  ordered.  "Then  we  shall  build  the 
house  round  them." 

"Ay,"  said  Slightly,  "that  is  how  a  house  is 
built;  it  all  comes  back  to  me." 

Peter  thought  of  everything.  "Slightly,"  he 
cried,  "fetch  a  doctor." 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  Slightly  at  once,  and  disap- 
peared, scratching  his  head.  But  he  knew  Peter 
must  be  obeyed,  and  he  returned  in  a  moment, 
wearing  John's  hat  and  looking  solemn. 

"Please,  sir,"  said  Peter,  going  to  him,  "are  you 
a  doctor?" 

The  difference  between  him  and  the  other  boys 
at  such  a  time  was  that  they  knew  it  was  make- 

84 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

believe,  while  to  him  make-believe  and  true  were 
exactly  the  same  thing.  This  sometimes  troubled 
them,  as  when  they  had  to  make-believe  that  they 
had  had  their  dinners. 

If  they  broke  down  in  their  make-believe  he 
rapped  them  on  the  knuckles. 

"Yes,  my  little  man,"  anxiously  replied 
Slightly,  who  had  chapped  knuckles. 

"Please,  sir,"  Peter  explained,  "a  lady  lies  very 
ill." 

She  was  lying  at  their  feet,  but  Slightly  had  the 
sense  not  to  see  her. 

"Tut,  tut,  tut,"  he  said,  "where  does  she  lie?" 

"In  yonder  glade." 

"I  will  put  a  glass  thing  in  her  mouth,"  said 
Slightly,  and  he  made-believe  to  do  it,  while  Peter 
waited.  It  was  an  anxious  moment  when  the  glass 
thing  was  withdrawn. 

"How  is  she*?"  inquired  Peter. 

"Tut,  tut,  tut,"  said  Slightly,  this  has  cured  her." 

"I  am  glad!"  Peter  cried. 

"I  will  call  again  in  the  evening,"  Slightly  said; 
"give  her  beef  tea  out  of  a  cup  with  a  spout  to  it" ; 
but  after  he  had  returned  the  hat  to  John  he  blew 
big  breaths,  which  was  his  habit  on  escaping  from 
a  difficulty. 

In  the  meantime  the  wood  had  been  alive  with 
the  sound  of  axes ;  almost  everything  needed  for  a 
cosy  dwelling  already  lay  at  Wendy's  feet. 

85 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

"If  only  we  knew,"  said  one,  "the  kind  of 
house  she  likes  best." 

"Peter,"  shouted  another,  "she  is  moving  in  her 
sleep." 

"Her  mouth  opens,"  cried  a  third,  looking  re- 
spectfully into  it.  "Oh,  lovely!" 

"Perhaps  she  is  going  to  sing  in  her  sleep,"  said 
Peter.  "Wendy,  sing  the  kind  of  house  you 
would  like  to  have." 

Immediately,  without  opening  her  eyes,  Wendy 
began  to  sing : 

"  I  wish  I  had  a  pretty  house, 

The  littlest  ever  seen, 
With  funny  little  red  walls 
And  roof  of  mossy  green." 

They  gurgled  with  joy  at  this,  for  by  the  great- 
est good  luck  the  branches  they  had  brought  were 
sticky  with  red  sap,  and  all  the  ground  was  car- 
peted with  moss.  As  they  rattled  up  the  little 
house  they  broke  into  song  themselves : 

"We've  built  the 'little  walls  and  roof 

And  made  a  lovely  door, 
So  tell  us,  mother  Wendy, 

Wliat  are  you  wanting  more  ?" 

To  this  she  answered  rather  greedily : 

"Oh,  really  next  I  think  I'll  have 

Gay  windows  all  about, 
With  roses  peeping  in,  you  know, 
And  babies  peeping  out." 

86 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

With  a  blow  of  their  fists  they  made  windows, 
and  large  yellow  leaves  were  the  blinds.  But 
roses ? 

"Roses !"  cried  Peter  sternly. 

Quickly  they  made-believe  to  grow  the  loveliest 
roses  up  the  walls. 

Babies'? 

To  prevent  Peter  ordering  babies  they  hurried 
into  song  again : 

"We've  made  the  roses  peeping  out, 

The  babes  are  at  the  door, 
We  cannot  make  oufselves,  you  know, 
'Cos  we've  been  made  before." 

Peter,  seeing  this  to  be  a  good  idea,  at  once  pre- 
tended that  it  was  his  own.  The  house  was  quite 
beautiful,  and  no  doubt  Wendy  was  very  cosy 
within,  though,  of  course,  they  could  no  longer  see 
her.  Peter  strode  up  and  down,  ordering  finishing 
touches.  Nothing  escaped  his  eagle  eye.  Just 
when  it  seemed  absolutely  finished, 

"There's  no  knocker  on  the  door,"  he  said. 

They  were  very  ashamed,  but  Tootles  gave  the 
sole  of  his  shoe,  and  it  made  an  excellent  knocker. 

Absolutely  finished  now,  they  thought. 

Not  a  bit  of  it.  "There's  no  chimney,"  Peter 
said;  "we  must  have  a  chimney." 

"It  certainly  does  need  a  chimney,"  said  John 
importantly.  This  gave  Peter  an  idea.  He 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

snatched  the  hat  off  John's  head,  knocked  out  the 
bottom,  and  put  the  hat  on  the  roof.  The  little 
house  was  so  pleased  to  have  such  a  capital  chim- 
ney that,  as  if  to  say  thank  you,  smoke  imme- 
diately began  to  come  out  of  the  hat. 

Now  really  and  truly  it  was  finished.  Nothing 
remained  to  do  but  to  knock. 

"All  look  your  best,"  Peter  warned  them;  "first 
impressions  are  awfully  important." 

He  was  glad  no  one  asked  him  what  first  im- 
pressions are;  they  were  all  too  busy  looking  their 
best. 

He  knocked  politely,  and  now  the  wood  was  as 
still  as  the  children,  not  a  sound  to  be  heard  except 
from  Tinker  Bell,  who  was  watching  from  a 
branch  and  openly  sneering. 

What  the  boys  were  wondering  was,  would  any 
one  answer  the  knock  *?  If  a  lady,  what  would  she 
be  like? 

The  door  opened  and  a  lady  came  out.  It  was 
Wendy.  They  all  whipped  off  their  hats. 

She  looked  properly  surprised,  and  this  was  just 
how  they  had  hoped  she  would  look. 

"Where  am  IT  she  said. 

Of  course  Slightly  was  the  first  to  get  his  word 
in.  "Wendy  lady,"  he  said  rapidly,  "for  you  we 
built  this  house." 

"Oh,  say  you're  pleased,"  cried  Nibs. 

"Lovely,  darling  house,"  Wendy  said,  and  they 


PETER  ON   GUARD 


THE  LITTLE  HOUSE 

were  the  very  words  they  had  hoped  she  would 
say. 

"And  we  are  your  children,"  cried  the  twins. 

Then  all  went  on  their  knees,  and  holding  out 
their  arms  cried,  "O  Wendy  lady,  be  our  mother." 

"Ought  IT  Wendy  said,  all  shining.  "Of 
course  it's  frightfully  fascinating,  but  you  see  I 
am  only  a  little  girl.  I  have  no  real  experience." 

"That  doesn't  matter,"  said  Peter,  as  if  he  were 
the  only  person  present  who  knew  all  about  it, 
though  he  was  really  the  one  who  knew  least. 
"What  we  need  is  just  a  nice  motherly  person." 

"Oh  dear!"  Wendy  said,  "you  see  I  feel  that  is 
exactly  what  I  am." 

"It  is,  it  is,"  they  all  cried;  "we  saw  it  at  once." 

"Very  well,"  she  said,  "I  will  do  my  best.  Come 
inside  at  once,  you  naughty  children;  I  am  sure 
your  feet  are  damp.  And  before  I  put  you  to  bed 
I  have  just  time  to  finish  the  story  of  Cinderella." 

In  they  went;  I  don't  know  how  there  was  room 
for  them,  but  you  can  squeeze  very  tight  in  the 
Neverland.  And  that  was  the  first  of  the  many 
joyous  evenings  they  had  with  Wendy.  By  and 
by  she  tucked  them  up  in  the  great  bed  in  the 
home  under  the  trees,  but  she  herself  slept  that 
night  in  the  little  house,  and  Peter  kept  watch  out- 
side with  drawn  sword,  for  the  pirates  could  be 
heard  carousing  far  away  and  the  wolves  were  on 
the  prowl.  The  little  house  looked  so  cosy  and 

89 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

safe  in  the  darkness,  with  a  bright  light  showing 
through  its  blinds,  and  the  chimney  smoking 
beautifully,  and  Peter  standing  on  guard.  After 
a  time  he  fell  asleep,  and  some  unsteady  fairies 
had  to  climb  over  him  on  their  way  home  from  an 
orgy.  Any  of  the  other  boys  obstructing  the  fairy 
path  at  night  they  would  have  mischiefed,  but 
they  just  tweaked  Peter's  nose  and  passed  on. 


90 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  HOME   UNDER  THE  GROUND 

ONE  of  the  first  things  Peter  did  next  day  was  to 
measure  Wendy  and  John  and  Michael  for  hollow 
trees.  Hook,  you  remember,  had  sneered  at  the 
boys  for  thinking  they  needed  a  tree  apiece,  but 
this  was  ignorance,  for  unless  your  tree  fitted  you 
it  was  difficult  to  go  up  and  down,  and  no  two  of 
the  boys  were  quite  the  same  size.  Once  you 
fitted,  you  drew  in  your  breath  at  the  top,  and 
down  you  went  at  exactly  the  right  speed,  while 
to  ascend  you  drew  in  and  let  out  alternately,  and 
so  wriggled  up.  Of  course,  when  you  have  mas- 
tered the  action  you  are  able  to  do  these  things 
without  thinking  of  them,  and  then  nothing  can 
be  more  graceful. 

But  you  simply  must  fit,  and  Peter  measures 
you  for  your  tree  as  carefully  as  for  a  suit  of 
clothes:  the  only  difference  being  that  the  clothes 
are  made  to  fit  you,  while  you  have  to  be  made  to 
fit  the  tree.  Usually  it  is  done  quite  easily,  as  by 
your  wearing  too  many  garments  or  too  few,  but  if 

91 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

you  are  bumpy  in  awkward  places  or  the  only 
available  tree  is  an  odd  shape,  Peter  does  some 
things  to  you,  and  after  that  you  fit.  Once  you 
fit,  great  care  must  be  taken  to  go  on  fitting,  and 
this,  as  Wendy  was  to  discover  to  her  delight, 
keeps  a  whole  family  in  perfect  condition. 

Wendy  and  Michael  fitted  their  trees  at  the 
first  try,  but  John  had  to  be  altered  a  little. 

After  a  few  days'  practice  they  could  go  up  and 
down  as  gaily  as  buckets  in  a  well.  And  how  ar- 
dently they  grew  to  love  their  home  under  the 
ground;  especially  Wendy!  It  consisted  of  one 
large  room,  as  all  houses  should  do,  with  a  floor  in 
which  you  could  dig  if  you  wanted  to  go  fishing, 
and  in  this  floor  grew  stout  mushrooms  of  a  charm- 
ing colour,  which  were  used  as  stools.  A  Never 
tree  tried  hard  to  grow  in  the  centre  of  the  room, 
but  every  morning  they  sawed  the  trunk  through, 
level  with  the  floor.  By  tea-time  it  was  always 
about  two  feet  high,  and  then  they  put  a  door  on 
top  of  it,  the  whole  thus  becoming  a  table ;  as  soon 
as  they  cleared  away,  they  sawed  off  the  trunk 
again,  and  thus  there  was  more  room  to  play. 
There  was  an  enormous  fireplace  which  was  in  al- 
most any  part  of  the  room  where  you  cared  to 
light  it,  and  across  this  Wendy  stretched  strings, 
made  of  fibre,  from  which  she  suspended  her  wash- 
ing. The  bed  was  tilted  against  the  wall  by  day, 
and  let  down  at  6.30,  when  it  filled  nearly  half  the 

92 


THE  HOME  UNDER  THE  GROUND 

room;  and  all  the  boys  slept  in  it,  except  Michael, 
lying  like  sardines  in  a  tin.  There  was  a  strict  rule 
against  turning  round  until  one  gave  the  signal, 
when  all  turned  at  once.  Michael  should  have 
used  it  also,  but  Wendy  would  have  a  baby,  and 
he  was  the  littlest,  and  you  know  what  women 
are,  and  the  short  and  the  long  of  it  is  that  he  was 
hung  up  in  a  basket. 

It  was  rough  and  simple,  and  not  unlike  what 
baby  bears  would  have  made  of  an  underground 
house  in  the  same  circumstances.  But  there  was 
one  recess  in  the  wall,  no  larger  than  a  bird-cage, 
which  was  the  private  apartment  of  Tinker  Bell. 
It  could  be  shut  off  from  the  rest  of  the  home  by  a 
tiny  curtain,  which  Tink,  who  was  most  fastidious, 
always  kept  drawn  when  dressing  or  undressing. 
No  woman,  however  large,  could  have  had  a  more 
exquisite  boudoir  and  bed-chamber  combined.  The 
couch,  as  she  always  called  it,  was  a  genuine 
Queen  Mab,  with  club  legs;  and  she  varied  the 
bedspreads  according  to  what  fruit-blossom  was 
in  season.  Her  mirror  was  a  Puss-in-boots,  of 
which  there  are  now  only  three,  unchipped,  known 
to  the  fairy  dealers;  the  wash-stand  was  Pie-crust 
and  reversible,  the  chest  of  drawers  an  authentic 
Charming  the  Sixth,  and  the  carpet  and  rugs  of  the 
best  (the  early)  period  of  Margery  and  Robin. 
There  was  a  chandelier  from  Tiddlywinks  for  the 
look  of  the  thing,  but  of  course  she  lit  the  residence 

93 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

herself.  Tink  was  very  contemptuous  of  the  rest 
of  the  house,  as  indeed  was  perhaps  inevitable,  and 
her  chamber,  though  beautiful,  looked  rather  con- 
ceited, having  the  appearance  of  a  nose  perma- 
nently turned  up. 

I  suppose  it  was  all  especially  entrancing  to 
Wendy,  because  those  rampagious  boys  of  hers 
gave  her  so  much  to  do.  Really  there  were  whole 
weeks  when,  except  perhaps  with  a  stocking  in  the 
evening,  she  was  never  above  ground.  The  cook- 
ing, I  can  tell  you,  kept  her  nose  to  the  pot,  and 
even  if  there  was  nothing  in  it,  even  though  there 
was  no  pot,  she  had  to  keep  watching  that  it  came 
aboil  just  the  same.  You  never  exactly  knew 
whether  there  would  be  a  real  meal  or  just  a  make- 
believe,  it  all  depended  upon  Peter's  whim:  he 
could  eat,  really  eat,  if  it  was  part  of  a  game,  but 
he  could  not  stodge  just  to  feel  stodgy,  which  is 
what  most  children  like  better  than  anything  else ; 
the  next  best  thing  being  to  talk  about  it.  Make- 
believe  was  so  real  to  him  that  during  a  meal  of  it 
you  could  see  him  getting  rounder.  Of  course  it 
was  trying,  but  you  simply  had  to  follow  his  lead, 
and  if  you  could  prove  to  him  that  you  were  get- 
ting loose  for  your  tree  he  let  you  stodge. 

Wendy's  favourite  time  for  sewing  and  darning 
was  after  they  had  all  gone  to  bed.  Then,  as  she 
expressed  it,  she  had  a  breathing  time  for  herself; 
and  she  occupied  it  in  making  new  things  for 

94 


THE  HOME  UNDER  THE  GROUND 

them,  and  putting  double  pieces  on  the  knees,  for 
they  were  all  most  frightfully  hard  on  their  knees. 

When  she  sat  down  to  a  basketful  of  their  stock- 
ings, every  heel  with  a  hole  in  it,  she  would  fling 
up  her  arms  and  exclaim,  "Oh  dear,  I  am  sure  I 
sometimes  think  spinsters  are  to  be  envied!" 

Her  face  beamed  when  she  exclaimed  this. 

You  remember  about  her  pet  wolf.  Well,  it 
very  soon  discovered  that  she  had  come  to  the 
island  and  found  her  out,  and  they  just  ran  into 
each  other's  arms.  After  that  it  followed  her 
about  everywhere. 

As  time  wore  on  did  she  think  much  about  the 
beloved  parents  she  had  left  behind  her?  This  is 
a  difficult  question,  because  it  is  quite  impossible 
to  say  how  time  does  wear  on  in  the  Neverland, 
where  it  is  calculated  by  moons  and  suns,  and 
there  are  ever  so  many  more  of  them  than  on  the 
mainland.  But  I  am  afraid  that  Wendy  did  not 
really  worry  about  her  father  and  mother;  she  was 
absolutely  confident  that  they  would  always  keep 
the  window  open  for  her  to  fly  back  by,  and  this 
gave  her  complete  ease  of  mind.  What  did  disturb 
her  at  times  was  that  John  remembered  his  parents 
vaguely  only,  as  people  he  had  once  known,  while 
Michael  was  quite  willing  to  believe  that  she  was 
really  his  mother.  These  things  scared  her  a  little, 
and  nobly  anxious  to  do  her  duty,  she  tried  to  fix 
the  old  life  in  their  minds  by  setting  them  exami- 

95 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

nation  papers  on  it,  as  like  as  possible  to  the  ones 
she  used  to  do  at  school.  The  other  boys  thought 
this  awfully  interesting,  and  insisted  on  joining, 
and  they  made  slates  for  themselves,  and  sat  round 
the  table,  writing  and  thinking  hard  about  the 
questions  she  had  written  on  another  slate  and 
passed  round.  They  were  the  most  ordinary  ques- 
tions—  "What  was  the  colour  of  Mother's  eyes'? 
Which  was  taller,  Father  or  Mother?  Was 
Mother  blonde  or  brunette*?  Answer  all  three 
questions  if  possible."  "(A)  Write  an  essay  of 
not  less  than  40  words  on  How  I  spent  my  last 
Holidays,  or  The  Carakters  of  Father  and  Mother 
compared.  Only  one  of  these  to  be  attempted." 
Or  "(i)  Describe  Mother's  laugh;  (2)  Describe 
Father's  laugh;  (3)  Describe  Mother's  Party 
Dress;  (4)  Describe  the  Kennel  and  its  Inmate." 

They  were  just  everyday  questions  like  these, 
and  when  you  could  not  answer  them  you  were 
told  to  make  a  cross;  and  it  was  really  dreadful 
what  a  number  of  crosses  even  John  made.  Of 
course  the  only  boy  who  replied  to  every  question 
was  Slightly,  and  no  one  could  have  been  more 
hopeful  of  coming  out  first,  but  his  answers  were 
perfectly  ridiculous,  and  he  really  came  out  last: 
a  melancholy  thing. 

Peter  did  not  compete.  For  one  thing  he  de- 
spised all  mothers  except  Wendy,  and  for  another 
he  was  the  only  boy  on  the  island  who  could 


THE  HOME  UNDER  THE  GROUND 

neither  write  nor  spell ;  not  the  smallest  word.  He 
was  above  all  that  sort  of  thing. 

By  the  way,  the  questions  were  all  written  in 
the  past  tense.  What  was  the  colour  of  Mother's 
eyes,  and  so  on.  Wendy,  you  see,  had  been  for- 
getting too. 

Adventures,  of  course,  as  we  shall  see,  were  of 
daily  occurrence;  but  about  this  time  Peter  in- 
vented, with  Wendy's  help,  a  new  game  that  fas- 
cinated him  enormously,  until  he  suddenly  had  no 
more  interest  in  it,  which,  as  you  have  been  told, 
was  what  always  happened  with  his  games.  It 
consisted  in  pretending  not  to  have  adventures,  in 
doing  the  sort  of  thing  John  and  Michael  had  been 
doing  all  their  lives,  sitting  on  stools  flinging  balls 
in  the  air,  pushing  each  other,  going  out  for  walks 
and  coming  back  without  having  killed  so  much  as 
a  grizzly.  To  see  Peter  doing  nothing  on  a  stool 
was  a  great  sight ;  he  could  not  help  looking  solemn 
at  such  times,  to  sit  still  seemed  to  him  such  a 
comic  thing  to  do.  He  boasted  that  he  had  gone  a 
walk  for  the  good  of  his  health.  For  several  suns 
these  were  the  most  novel  of  all  adventures  to 
him;  and  John  and  Michael  had  to  pretend  to  be 
delighted  also;  otherwise  he  would  have  treated 
them  severely. 

He  often  went  out  alone,  and  when  he  came 
back  you  were  never  absolutely  certain  whether  he 
had  had  an  adventure  or  not.  He  might  have  for- 

97 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

gotten  it  so  completely  that  he  said  nothing  about 
it;  and  then  when  you  went  out  you  found  the 
body ;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  he  might  say  a  great 
deal  about  it,  and  yet  you  could  not  find  the  body. 
Sometimes  he  came  home  with  his  head  bandaged, 
and  then  Wendy  cooed  over  him  and  bathed  it  in 
Lukewarm  water,  while  he  told  a  dazzling  tale. 
But  she  was  never  quite  sure,  you  know.  There 
were,  however,  many  adventures  which  she  knew 
to  be  true  because  she  was  in  them  herself,  and 
there  were  still  more  that  were  at  least  partly  true, 
for  the  other  boys  were  in  them  and  said  they  were 
wholly  true.  To  describe  them  all  would  require 
a  book  as  large  as  an  English-Latin,  Latin-English 
Dictionary,  and  the  most  we  can  do  is  to  give  one 
as  a  specimen  of  an  average  hour  on  the  island. 
The  difficulty  is  which  one  to  choose.  Should  we 
take  the  brush  with  the  redskins  at  Slightly  Gulch? 
It  was  a  sanguinary  affair,  and  especially  interest- 
ing as  showing  one  of  Peter's  peculiarities,  which 
was  that  in  the  middle  of  a  fight  he  would  sud- 
denly change  sides.  At  the  Gulch,  when  victory 
was  still  in  the  balance,  sometimes  leaning  this 
way  and  sometimes  that,  he  called  out,  "I'm  red- 
skin to-day;  what  are  you,  Tootles'?"  And 
Tootles  answered,  "Redskin;  what  are  you, 
Nibs'?"  and  Nibs  said,  "Redskin;  what  are  you, 
Twin?"  and  so  on;  and  they  were  all  redskin;  and 
of  course  this  would  have  ended  the  fight  had  not 

98 


THE  HOME  UNDER  THE  GROUND 

the  real  redskins,  fascinated  by  Peter's  methods, 
agreed  to  be  lost  boys  for  that  once,  and  so  at  it 
they  all  went  again,  more  fiercely  than  ever. 

The  extraordinary  upshot  of  this  adventure  was 
— but  we  have  not  decided  yet  that  this  is  the  ad- 
venture we  are  to  narrate.  Perhaps  a  better  one 
would  be  the  night  attack  by  the  redskins  on  the 
house  under  the  ground,  when  several  of  them 
stuck  in  the  hollow  trees  and  had  to  be  pulled  out 
like  corks.  Or  we  might  tell  how  Peter  saved 
Tiger  Lily's  life  in  the  Mermaids'  Lagoon,  and  so 
made  her  his  ally. 

Or  we  could  tell  of  that  cake  the  pirates  cooked 
so  that  the  boys  might  eat  it  and  perish ;  and  how 
they  placed  it  in  one  cunning  spot  after  another; 
but  always  Wendy  snatched  it  from  the  hands  of 
her  children,  so  that  in  time  it  lost  its  succulence, 
and  became  as  hard  as  a  stone,  and  was  used  as  a 
missile,  and  Hook  fell  over  it  in  the  dark. 

Or  suppose  we  tell  of  the  birds  that  were  Peter's 
friends,  particularly  of  the  Never  bird  that  built 
in  a  tree  overhanging  the  lagoon,  and  how  the  nest 
fell  into  the  water,  and  still  the  bird  sat  on  her 
eggs,  and  Peter  gave  orders  that  she  was  not  to  be 
disturbed.  That  is  a  pretty  story,  and  the  end 
shows  how  grateful  a  bird  can  be ;  but  if  we  tell  it 
we  must  also  tell  the  whole  adventure  of  the  la- 
goon, which  would  of  course  be  telling  two  adven- 
tures rather  than  just  one.  A  shorter  adventure, 

99 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

and  quite  as  exciting,  was  Tinker  Bell's  attempt, 
with  the  help  of  some  street  fairies,  to  have  the 
sleeping  Wendy  conveyed  on  a  great  floating  leaf 
to  the  mainland.  Fortunately  the  leaf  gave  way 
and  Wendy  woke,  thinking  it  was  bath-time,  and 
swam  back.  Or  again,  we  might  choose  Peter's 
defiance  of  the  lions,  when  he  drew  a  circle  round 
him  on  the  ground  with  an  arrow  and  dared  them 
to  cross  it;  and  though  he  waited  for  hours,  with 
the  other  boys  and  Wendy  looking  on  breathlessly 
from  trees,  not  one  of  them  would  accept  his 
challenge. 

Which  of  these  adventures  shall  we  choose"? 
The  best  way  will  be  to  toss  for  it. 

I  have  tossed,  and  the  lagoon  has  won.  This 
almost  makes  one  wish  that  the  gulch  or  the  cake 
or  Tink's  leaf  had  won.  Of  course  I  could  do  it 
again,  and  make  it  best  out  of  three ;  however,  per- 
haps fairest  to  stick  to  the  lagoon. 


100 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  MERMAIDS'  LAGOON 

IF  you  shut  your  eyes  and  are  a  lucky  one,  you 
may  see  at  times  a  shapeless  pool  of  lovely  pale 
colours  suspended  in  the  darkness;  then  if  you 
squeeze  your  eyes  tighter,  the  pool  begins  to  take 
shape,  and  the  colours  become  so  vivid  that  with 
another  squeeze  they  must  go  on  fire.  But  just 
before  they  go  on  fire  you  see  the  lagoon.  This  is 
the  nearest  you  ever  get  to  it  on  the  mainland,  just 
one  heavenly  moment;  if  there  could  be  two  mo- 
ments you  might  see  the  surf  and  hear  the  mer- 
maids singing. 

The  children  often  spent  long  summer  days  on 
this  lagoon,  swimming  or  floating  most  of  the 
time,  playing  the  mermaid  games  in  the  water, 
and  so  forth.  You  must  not  think  from  this  that 
the  mermaids  were  on  friendly  terms  with  them: 
on  the  contrary,  it  was  among  Wendy's  lasting 
regrets  that  all  the  time  she  was  on  the  island  she 
never  had  a  civil  word  from  one  of  them.  When 
she  stole  softly  to  the  edge  of  the  lagoon  she  might 

101 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

see  them  by  the  score,  especially  on  Marooners' 
Rock,  where  they  loved  to  bask,  combing  out  their 
hair  in  a  lazy  way  that  quite  irritated  her;  or  she 
might  even  swim,  on  tiptoe  as  it  were,  to  within  a 
yard  of  them,  but  then  they  saw  her  and  dived, 
probably  splashing  her  with  their  tails,  not  by  ac- 
cident, but  intentionally. 

They  treated  all  the  boys  in  the  same  way,  ex- 
cept of  course  Peter,  who  chatted  with  them  on 
Marooners'  Rock  by  the  hour  and  sat  on  their  tails 
when  they  got  cheeky.  He  gave  Wendy  one  of 
their  combs. 

The  most  haunting  time  at  which  to  see  them  is 
at  the  turn  of  the  moon,  when  they  utter  strange 
wailing  cries ;  but  the  lagoon  is  dangerous  for  mor- 
tals then,  and  until  the  evening  of  which  we  have 
now  to  tell,  Wendy  had  never  seen  the  lagoon  by 
moonlight,  less  from  fear,  for  of  course  Peter 
would  have  accompanied  her,  than  because  she  had 
strict  rules  about  every  one  being  in  bed  by  seven. 
She  was  often  at  the  lagoon,  however,  on  sunny 
days  after  rain,  when  the  mermaids  come  up  in 
extraordinary  numbers  to  play  with  their  bubbles. 
The  bubbles  of  many  colours  made  in  rainbow 
water  they  treat  as  balls,  hitting  them  gaily  from 
one  to  another  with  their  tails,  and  trying  to  keep 
them  in  the  rainbow  till  they  burst.  The  goals  are 
at  each  end  of  the  rainbow,  and  the  keepers  only 
are  allowed  to  use  their  hands.  Sometimes  a  dozen 

102 


THE  MERMAIDS'  LAGOON 

of  these  games  will  be  going  on  in  the  lagoon  at  a 
time,  and  it  is  quite  a  pretty  sight. 

But  the  moment  the  children  tried  to  join  in 
they  had  to  play  by  themselves,  for  the  mermaids 
immediately  disappeared.  Nevertheless  we  have 
proof  that  they  secretly  watched  the  interlopers, 
and  were  not  above  taking  an  idea  from  them ;  for 
John  introduced  a  new  way  of  hitting  the  bubble, 
with  the  head  instead  of  the  hand,  and  the  mer- 
maids adopted  it.  This  is  the  one  mark  that  John 
has  left  on  the  Neverland. 

It  must  also  have  been  rather  pretty  to  see  the 
children  resting  on  a  rock  for  half  an  hour  after 
their  mid-day  meal.  Wendy  insisted  on  their 
doing  this,  and  it  had  to  be  a  real  rest  even  though 
the  meal  was  make-believe.  So  they  lay  there  in 
the  sun,  and  their  bodies  glistened  in  it,  while  she 
sat  beside  them  and  looked  important. 

It  was  one  such  day,  and  they  were  all  on 
Marooners'  Rock.  The  rock  was  not  much  larger 
than  their  great  bed,  but  of  course  they  all  knew 
how  not  to  take  up  much  room,  and  they  were 
dozing  or  at  least  lying  with  their  eyes  shut,  and 
pinching  occasionally  when  they  thought  Wendy 
was  not  looking.  She  was  very  busy  stitching. 

While  she  stitched  a  change  came  to  the  lagoon. 
Little  shivers  ran  over  it,  and  the  sun  went  away 
and  shadows  stole  across  the  water,  turning  it  cold. 
Wendy  could  no  longer  see  to  thread  her  needle, 

103 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

and  when  she  looked  up,  the  lagoon  that  had  al- 
ways hitherto  been  such  a  laughing  place  seemed 
formidable  and  unfriendly. 

It  was  not,  she  knew,  that  night  had  come,  but 
something  as  dark  as  night  had  come.  No,  worse 
than  that.  It  had  not  come,  but  it  had  sent  that 
shiver  through  the  sea  to  say  that  it  was  coming. 
What  was  it? 

There  crowded  upon  her  all  the  stories  she  had 
been  told  of  Marooners'  Rock,  so  called  because 
evil  captains  put  sailors  on  it  and  leave  them  there 
to  drown.  They  drown  when  the  tide  rises,  for 
then  it  is  submerged. 

Of  cc  arse  she  should  have  roused  the  children  at 
once;  r.ot  merely  because  of  the  unknown  that  was 
stalking  toward  them,  but  because  it  was  no  longer 
good  for  them  to  sleep  on  a  rock  grown  chilly.  But 
she  was  a  young  mother  and  she  did  not  know  this; 
she  thought  you  simply  must  stick  to  your  rule 
about  half  an  hour  after  the  mid-day  meal.  So, 
though  fear  was  upon  her,  and  she  longed  to  hear 
male  voices,  she  would  not  waken  them.  Even 
when  she  heard  the  sound  of  muffled  oars,  though 
her  heart  was  in  her  mouth,  she  did  not  waken 
them.  She  stood  over  them  to  let  them  have  their 
sleep  out.  Was  it  not  brave  of  Wendy1? 

It  was  well  for  those  boys  then  that  there  was 
one  among  them  who  could  sniff  danger  even  in  his 
sleep.  Peter  sprang  erect,  as  wide  awake  at  once 

104 


THE  MERMAIDS'  LAGOON 

as  a  dog,  and  with  one  warning  cry  he  roused  the 
others. 

He  stood  motionless,  one  hand  to  his  ear. 

"Pirates !"  he  cried.  The  others  came  closer  to 
him.  A  strange  smile  was  playing  about  his  face, 
and  Wendy  saw  it  and  shuddered.  While  that 
smile  was  on  his  face  no  one  dared  address  him; 
all  they  could  do  was  to  stand  ready  to  obey.  The 
order  came  sharp  and  incisive. 

"Dive!" 

There  was  a  gleam  of  legs,  and  instantly  the 
lagoon  seemed  deserted.  Marooners'  Rock  stood 
alone  in  the  forbidding  waters,  as  if  it  were  itself 
marooned. 

The  boat  drew  nearer.  It  was  the  pirate  dinghy, 
with  three  figures  in  her,  Smee  and  Starkey,  and 
the  third  a  captive,  no  other  than  Tiger  Lily.  Her 
hands  and  ankles  were  tied,  and  she  knew  what 
was  to  be  her  fate.  She  was  to  be  left  on  the  rock 
to  perish,  an  end  to  one  of  her  race  more  terrible 
than  death  by  fire  or  torture,  for  is  it  not  written 
in  the  book  of  the  tribe  that  there  is  no  path 
through  water  to  the  happy  hunting-ground  ?  Yet 
her  face  was  impassive;  she  was  the  daughter  of  a 
chief,  she  must  die  as  a  chief's  daughter,  it  is 
enough. 

They  had  caught  her  boarding  the  pirate  ship 
with  a  knife  in  her  mouth.  No  watch  was  kept  on 
the  ship,  it  being  Hook's  boast  that  the  wind  of  his 

105 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

name  guarded  the  ship  for  a  mile  around.  Now 
her  fate  would  help  to  guard  it  also.  One  more 
wail  would  go  the  round  in  that  wind  by  night. 

In  the  gloom  that  they  brought  with  them  the  two 
pirates  did  not  see  the  rock  till  they  crashed  into  it. 

"Luff,  you  lubber,"  cried  an  Irish  voice  that  was 
Smee's;  "here's  the  rock.  Now,  then,  what  we 
have  to  do  is  to  hoist  the  redskin  on  to  it  and  leave 
her  there  to  drown." 

It  was  the  work  of  one  brutal  moment  to  land 
the  beautiful  girl  on  the  rock;  she  was  too  proud  to 
offer  a  vain  resistance. 

Quite  near  the  rock,  but  out  of  sight,  two  heads 
were  bobbing  up  and  down,  Peter's  and  Wendy's. 
Wendy  was  crying,  for  it  was  the  first  tragedy  she 
had  seen.  Peter  had  seen  many  tragedies,  but  he 
had  forgotten  them  all.  He  was  less  sorry  than 
Wendy  for  Tiger  Lily :  it  was  two  against  one  that 
angered  him,  and  he  meant  to  save  her.  An  easy 
way  would  have  been  to  wait  until  the  pirates  had 
gone,  but  he  was  never  one  to  choose  the  easy  way. 

There  was  almost  nothing  he  could  not  do,  and 
he  now  imitated  the  voice  of  Hook. 

"Ahoy  there,  you  lubbers!"  he  called.  It  was 
a  marvellous  imitation. 

"The  captain !"  said  the  pirates,  staring  at  each 
other  in  surprise. 

"He  must  be  swimming  out  to  us,"  Starkey  said, 
when  they  had  looked  for  him  in  vain. 

106 


THE  MERMAIDS'  LAGOON 

"We  are  putting  the  redskin  on  the  rock,"  Smee 
called  out. 

"Set  her  free,"  came  the  astonishing  answer. 

"Free!" 

"Yes,  cut  her  bonds  and  let  her  go." 

"But,  captain " 

"At  once,  d'ye  hear,"  cried  Peter,  "or  I'll  plunge 
my  hook  in  you." 

"This  is  queer!"  Smee  gasped. 

"Better  do  what  the  captain  orders,"  said 
Starkey  nervously. 

"Ay,  ay,"  Smee  said,  and  he  cut  Tiger  Lily's 
cords.  At  once  like  an  eel  she  slid  between 
Starkey' s  legs  into  the  water. 

Of  course  Wendy  was  very  elated  over  Peter's 
cleverness;  but  she  knew  that  he  would  be  elated 
also  and  very  likely  crow  and  thus  betray  himself, 
so  at  once  her  hand  went  out  to  cover  his  mouth. 
But  it  was  stayed  even  in  the  act,  for  "Boat 
ahoy !"  rang  over  the  lagoon  in  Hook's  voice,  but 
this  time  it  was  not  Peter  who  had  spoken. 

Peter  may  have  been  about  to  crow,  but  his  face 
puckered  in  a  whistle  of  surprise  instead. 

"Boat  ahoy !"  again  came  the  voice. 

Now  Wendy  understood.  The  real  Hook  was 
also  in  the  water. 

He  was  swimming  to  the  boat,  and  as  his  men 
showed  a  light  to  guide  him  he  had  soon  reached 
them.  In  the  light  of  the  lantern  Wendy  saw  his 

107 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

hook  grip  the  boat's  side ;  she  saw  his  evil  swarthy 
face  as  he  rose  dripping  from  the  water,  and, 
quaking,  she  would  have  liked  to  swim  away,  but 
Peter  would  not  budge.  He  was  tingling  with 
life  and  also  top-heavy  with  conceit.  "Am  I  not 
a  wonder,  oh,  I  am  a  wonder!"  he  whispered  to 
her,  and  though  she  thought  so  also,  she  was  really 
glad  for  the  sake  of  his  reputation  that  no  one 
heard  him  except  herself. 

He  signed  to  her  to  listen. 

The  two  pirates  were  very  curious  to  know  what 
had  brought  their  captain  to  them,  but  he  sat  with 
his  head  on  his  hook  in  a  position  of  profound 
melancholy. 

"Captain,  is  all  well*?"  they  asked  timidly,  but 
he  answered  with  a  hollow  moan. 

"He  sighs,"  said  Smee. 

"He  sighs  again,"  said  Starkey. 

"And  yet  a  third  time  he  sighs,"  said  Smee. 

"What's  up,  captain?" 

Then  at  last  he  spoke  passionately. 

"The  game's  up,"  he  cried,  "those  boys  have 
found  a  mother." 

Affrighted  though  she  was,  Wendy  swelled  with 
pride. 

"O  evil  day!"  cried  Starkey. 

"What's  a  mother*?"  asked  the  ignorant  Smee. 

Wendy  was  so  shocked  that  she  exclaimed,  "He 
doesn't  know !"  and  always  after  this  she  felt  that 

108 


THE  MERMAIDS'  LAGOON 

if  you  could  have  a  pet  pirate  Smee  would  be  her 
one. 

Peter  pulled  her  beneath  the  water,  for  Hook 
had  started  up,  crying,  "What  was  that1?" 

"I  heard  nothing,"  said  Starkey,  raising  the  lan- 
tern over  the  waters,  and  as  the  pirates  looked  they 
saw  a  strange  sight.  It  was  the  nest  I  have  told 
you  of,  floating  on  the  lagoon,  and  the  Never  bird 
was  sitting  on  it. 

"See,"  said  Hook  in  answer  to  Smee's  question, 
"that  is  a  mother.  What  a  lesson !  The  nest  must 
have  fallen  into  the  water,  but  would  the  mother 
desert  her  eggs?  No." 

There  was  a  break  in  his  voice,  as  if  for  a  mo- 
ment he  recalled  innocent  days  when — but  he 
brushed  away  this  weakness  with  his  hook. 

Smee,  much  impressed,  gazed  at  the  bird  as  the 
nest  was  borne  past,  but  the  more  suspicious 
Starkey  said,  "If  she  is  a  mother,  perhaps  she  is 
hanging  about  here  to  help  Peter." 

Hook  winced.  "Ay,"  he  said,  "that  is  the  fear 
that  haunts  me." 

He  was  roused  from  this  dejection  by  Smee's 
eager  voice. 

"Captain,"  said  Smee,  "could  we  not  kidnap 
these  boys'  mother  and  make  her  our  mother'?" 

"It  is  a  princely  scheme,"  cried  Hook,  and  at 
once  it  took  practical  shape  in  his  great  brain. 
"We  will  seize  the  children  and  carry  them  to  the 

109 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

boat:  the  boys  we  will  make  walk  the  plank,  and 
Wendy  shall  be  our  mother." 

Again  Wendy  forgot  herself. 

"Never!"  she  cried,  and  bobbed. 

"What  was  that?" 

But  they  could  see  nothing.  They  thought  it 
must  have  been  but  a  leaf  in  the  wind.  "Do  you 
agree,  my  bullies'?"  asked  Hook. 

"There  is  my  hand  on  it,"  they  both  said. 

"And  there  is  my  hook.    Swear." 

They  all  swore.  By  this  time  they  were  on  the 
rock,  and  suddenly  Hook  remembered  Tiger  Lily. 

"Where  is  the  redskin?"  he  demanded  abruptly. 

He  had  a  playful  humour  at  moments,  and  they 
thought  this  was  one  of  the  moments. 

"That  is  all  right,  captain,"  Smee  answered 
complacently;  "we  let  her  go." 

"Let  her  go !"  cried  Hook. 

"  'Twas  your  own  orders,"  the  bo'sun  faltered. 

"You  called  over  the  water  to  us  to  let  her  go," 
said  Starkey. 

"Brimstone  and  gall,"  thundered  Hook,  "what 
cozening  is  here !"  His  face  had  gone  black  with 
rage,  but  he  saw  that  they  believed  their  words, 
and  he  was  startled.  "Lads,"  he  said,  shaking  a 
little,  "I  gave  no  such  order." 

"It  is  passing  queer,"  Smee  said,  and  they  all 
fidgeted  uncomfortably.  Hook  raised  his  voice, 
but  there  was  a  quiver  in  it. 

no 


THE  MERMAIDS'  LAGOON 

"Spirit  that  haunts  this  dark  lagoon  to-night," 
he  cried,  "dost  hear  me*?" 

Of  course  Peter  should  have  kept  quiet,  but  of 
course  he  did  not.  He  immediately  answered  in 
Hook's  voice : 

"Odds,  bobs,  hammer  and  tongs,  I  hear  you." 

In  that  supreme  moment  Hook  did  not  blanch, 
even  at  the  gills,  but  Smee  and  Starkey  clung  to 
each  other  in  terror. 

"Who  are  you,  stranger,  speak  ?"  Hook  de- 
manded. 

"I  am  James  Hook,"  replied  the  voice,  "captain 
of  the  Jolly  Roger" 

"You  are  not;  you  are  not,"  Hook  cried 
hoarsely. 

"Brimstone  and  gall,"  the  voice  retorted,  "say 
that  again,  and  I'll  cast  anchor  in  you." 

Hook  tried  a  more  ingratiating  manner.  "If 
you  are  Hook,"  he  said  almost  humbly,  "come  tell 
me,  who  am  I*?" 

"A  codfish,"  replied  the  voice,  "only  a  codfish." 

"A  codfish !"  Hook  echoed  blankly,  and  it  was 
then,  but  not  till  then,  that  his  proud  spirit  broke. 
He  saw  his  men  draw  back  from  him. 

"Have  we  been  captained  all  this  time  by  a  cod- 
fish!" they  muttered.  "It  is  lowering  to  our 
pride." 

They  were  his  dogs  snapping  at  him,  but,  tragic 
figure  though  he  had  become,  he  scarcely  heeded 

in 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

them.  Against  such  fearful  evidence  it  was  not 
their  belief  in  him  that  he  needed,  it  was  his  own. 
He  felt  his  ego  slipping  from  him.  "Don't  desert 
me,  bully,"  he  whispered  hoarsely  to  it. 

In  his  dark  nature  there  was  a  touch  of  the 
feminine,  as  in  all  the  greatest  pirates,  and  it  some- 
times gave  him  intuitions.  Suddenly  he  tried  the 
guessing  game. 

"Hook,"  he  called,  "have  you  another  voice*?" 

Now  Peter  could  never  resist  a  game,  and  he 
answered  blithely  in  his  own  voice,  "I  have." 

"And  another  name?" 

"Ay,  ay." 

"Vegetable?"  asked  Hook. 

"No." 

"Mineral?" 

"No." 

"Animal?" 

"Yes." 

"Man?" 

"No !"    This  answer  rang  out  scornfully. 

"Boy?" 

"Yes." 

"Ordinary  boy?" 

"No!" 

"Wonderful  boy?" 

To  Wendy's  pain  the  answer  that  rang  out  this 
time  was  "Yes." 

"Are  you  in  England?" 

112 


THE  MERMAIDS'  LAGOON 

"No." 

"Are  you  here*?" 

"Yes." 

Hook  was  completely  puzzled.  "You  ask  him 
some  questions,"  he  said  to  the  others,  wiping  his 
damp  brow. 

Smee  reflected.  "I  can't  think  of  a  thing,"  he 
said  regretfully. 

"Can't  guess,  can't  guess !"  crowed  Peter.  "Do 
you  give  it  up?" 

Of  course  in  his  pride  he  was  carrying  the  game 
too  far,  and  the  miscreants  saw  their  chance. 

"Yes,  yes,"  they  answered  eagerly. 

"Well,  then,"  he  cried,  "I  am  Peter  Pan!'-' 

Pan! 

In  a  moment  Hook  was  himself  again,  and  Smee 
and  Starkey  were  his  faithful  henchmen. 

"Now  we  have  him,"  Hook  shouted.  "Into  the 
water,  Smee.  Starkey,  mind  the  boat.  Take  him 
dead  or  alive !" 

He  leaped  as  he  spoke,  and  simultaneously  came 
the  gay  voice  of  Peter. 

"Are  you  ready,  boys'?" 

"Ay,  ay,"  from  various  parts  of  the  lagoon. 

"Then  lam  into  the  pirates." 

The  fight  was  short  and  sharp.  First  to  draw 
blood  was  John,  who  gallantly  climbed  into  the 
boat  and  held  Starkey.  There  was  a  fierce  strug- 
gle, in  which  the  cutlass  was  torn  from  the  pirate's 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

grasp.  He  wriggled  overboard  and  John  leapt 
after  him.  The  dinghy  drifted  away. 

Here  and  there  a  head  bobbed  up  in  the  water, 
and  there  was  a  flash  of  steel  followed  by  a  cry  or 
a  whoop.  In  the  confusion  some  struck  at  their 
own  side.  The  corkscrew  of  Smee  got  Tootles  in 
the  fourth  rib,  but  he  was  himself  pinked  in  turn 
by  Curly.  Farther  from  the  rock  Starkey  was 
pressing  Slightly  and  the  twins  hard. 

Where  all  this  time  was  Peter1?  He  was  seeking 
bigger  game. 

The  others  were  all  brave  boys,  and  they  must 
not  be  blamed  for  backing  from  the  pirate  captain. 
His  iron  claw  made  a  circle  of  dead  water  round 
him,  from  which  they  fled  like  affrighted  fishes. 

But  there  was  one  who  did  not  fear  him:  there 
was  one  prepared  to  enter  that  circle. 

Strangely,  it  was  not  in  the  water  that  they  met. 
Hook  rose  to  the  rock  to  breathe,  and  at  the  same 
moment  Peter  scaled  it  on  the  opposite  side.  The 
rock  was  slippery  as  a  ball,  and  they  had  to  crawl 
rather  than  climb.  Neither  knew  that  the  other 
was  coming.  Each  feeling  for  a  grip  met  the 
other's  arm:  in  surprise  they  raised  their  heads; 
their  faces  were  almost  touching;  so  they  met. 

Some  of  the  greatest  heroes  have  confessed  that 
just  before  they  fell  to  they  had  a  sinking.  Had 
it  been  so  with  Peter  at  that  moment  I  would  ad- 
mit it.  After  all,  this  was  the  only  man  that  the 

114 


THE  MERMAIDS'  LAGOON 

Sea-Cook  had  feared.  But  Peter  had  no  sinking, 
he  had  one  feeling  only,  gladness ;  and  he  gnashed 
his  pretty  teeth  with  joy.  Quick  as  thought  he 
snatched  a  knife  from  Hook's  belt  and  was  about 
to  drive  it  home,  when  he  saw  that  he  was  higher 
up  the  rock  than  his  foe.  It  would  not  have  been 
fighting  fair.  He  gave  the  pirate  a  hand  to  help 
him  up. 

It  was  then  that  Hook  bit  him. 

Not  the  pain  of  this  but  its  unfairness  was  what 
dazed  Peter.  It  made  him  quite  helpless.  He 
could  only  stare,  horrified.  Every  child  is  affected 
thus  the  first  time  he  is  treated  unfairly.  All  he 
thinks  he  has  a  right  to  when  he  comes  to  you  to 
be  yours  is  fairness.  After  you  have  been  unfair 
to  him  he  will  love  you  again,  but  he  will  never 
afterwards  be  quite  the  same  boy.  No  one  ever 
gets  over  the  first  unfairness ;  no  one  except  Peter. 
He  often  met  it,  but  he  always  forgot  it.  I  sup- 
pose that  was  the  real  difference  between  him  and 
all  the  rest. 

So  when  he  met  it  now  it  was  like  the  first  time ; 
and  he  could  just  stare,  helpless.  Twice  the  iron 
hand  clawed  him. 

A  few  minutes  afterwards  the  other  boys  saw 
Hook  in  the  water  striking  wildly  for  the  ship ;  no 
elation  on  his  pestilent  face  now,  only  white  fear, 
for  the  crocodile  was  in  dogged  pursuit  of  him.  On 
ordinary  occasions  the  boys  would  have  swum 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

alongside  cheering;  but  now  they  were  uneasy,  for 
they  had  lost  both  Peter  and  Wendy,  and  were 
scouring  the  lagoon  for  them,  calling  them  by 
name.  They  found  the  dinghy  and  went  home  in 
it,  shouting  "Peter,  Wendy"  as  they  went,  but  no 
answer  came  save  mocking  laughter  from  the  mer- 
maids. "They  must  be  swimming  back  or  flying," 
the  boys  concluded.  They  were  not  very  anxious, 
they  had  such  faith  in  Peter.  They  chuckled,  boy- 
like,  because  they  would  be  late  for  bed;  and  it 
was  all  mother  Wendy's  fault ! 

When  their  voices  died  away  there  came  cold 
silence  over  the  lagoon,  and  then  a  feeble  cry. 

"Help,  help!" 

Two  small  figures  were  beating  against  the  rock ; 
the  girl  had  fainted  and  lay  on  the  boy's  arm. 
With  a  last  effort  Peter  pulled  her  up  the  rock  and 
then  lay  down  beside  her.  Even  as  he  also  fainted 
he  saw  that  the  water  was  rising.  He  knew  that 
they  would  soon  be  drowned,  but  he  could  do  no 
more. 

As  they  lay  side  by  side  a  mermaid  caught 
Wendy  by  the  feet,  and  began  pulling  her  softly 
into  the  water.  Peter,  feeling  her  slip  from  him, 
woke  with  a  start,  and  was  just  in  time  to  draw 
her  back.  But  he  had  to  tell  her  the  truth. 

"We  are  on  the  rock,  Wendy,"  he  said,  "but  it 
is  growing  smaller.  Soon  the  water  will  be  over 
it." 

116 


THE  MERMAIDS'  LAGOON 

She  did  not  understand  even  now. 

"We  must  go,"  she  said,  almost  brightly. 

"Yes,"  he  answered  faintly. 

"Shall  we  swim  or  fly,  Peter?' 

He  had  to  tell  her. 

"Do  you  think  you  could  swim  or  fly  as  far  as 
the  island,  Wendy,  without  my  help*?" 

She  had  to  admit  that  she  was  too  tired. 

He  moaned. 

"What  is  it*?"  she  asked,  anxious  about  him  at 
once. 

"I  can't  help  you,  Wendy.  Hook  wounded  me. 
I  can  neither  fly  nor  swim." 

"Do  you  mean  we  shall  both  be  drowned?" 

"Look  how  the  water  is  rising." 

They  put  their  hands  over  their  eyes  to  shut  out 
the  sight.  They  thought  they  would  soon  be  no 
more.  As  they  sat  thus  something  brushed  against 
Peter  as  light  as  a  kiss,  and  stayed  there,  as  if  say- 
ing timidly,  "Can  I  be  of  any  use?" 

It  was  the  tail  of  a  kite,  which  Michael  had 
made  some  days  before.  It  had  torn  itself  out  of 
his  hand  and  floated  away. 

"Michael's  kite,"  Peter  said  without  interest, 
but  next  moment  he  had  seized  the  tail,  and  was 
pulling  the  kite  toward  him. 

"It  lifted  Michael  oil  the  ground,"  he  cried; 
"why  should  it  not  carry  you?" 

"Both  of  us!" 

117 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

"It  can't  lift  two;  Michael  and  Curly  tried." 

"Let  us  draw  lots,"  Wendy  said  bravely. 

"And  you  a  lady ;  never."  Already  he  had  tied 
the  tail  round  her.  She  clung  to  him ;  she  refused 
to  go  without  him;  but  with  a  "Good-bye, 
Wendy,"  he  pushed  her  from  the  rock;  and  in  a 
few  minutes  she  was  borne  out  of  his  sight.  Peter 
was  alone  on  the  lagoon. 

The  rock  was  very  small  now ;  soon  it  would  be 
submerged.  Pale  rays  of  light  tiptoed  across  the 
waters;  and  by  and  by  there  was  to  be  heard  a 
sound  at  once  the  most  musical  and  the  most 
melancholy  in  the  world:  the  mermaids  calling  to 
the  moon. 

Peter  was  not  quite  like  other  boys;  but  he  was 
afraid  at  last.  A  tremor  ran  through  him,  like  a 
shudder  passing  over  the  sea;  but  on  the  sea  one 
shudder  follows  another  till  there  are  hundreds  of 
them,  and  Peter  felt  just  the  one.  Next  moment 
he  was  standing  erect  on  the  rock  again,  with  that 
smile  on  his  face  and  a  drum  beating  within  him. 
It  was  saying,  "To  die  will  be  an  awfully  big  ad- 
venture." 


118 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  NEVER  BIRD 

THE  last  sounds  Peter  heard  before  he  was  quite 
alone  were  the  mermaids  retiring  one  by  one  to 
their  bedchambers  under  the  sea.  He  was  too  far 
away  to  hear  their  doors  shut;  but  every  door  in 
the  coral  caves  where  they  live  rings  a  tiny  bell 
when  it  opens  or  closes  (as  in  all  the  nicest  houses 
on  the  mainland),  and  he  heard  the  bells. 

Steadily  the  waters  rose  till  they  were  nibbling 
at  his  feet;  and  to  pass  the  time  until  they  made 
their  final  gulp,  he  watched  the  only  thing  moving 
on  the  lagoon.  He  thought  it  was  a  piece  of  float- 
ing paper,  perhaps  part  of  the  kite,  and  wondered 
idly  how  long  it  would  take  to  drift  ashore. 

Presently  he  noticed  as  an  odd  thing  that  it  was 
undoubtedly  out  upon  the  lagoon  with  some  defi- 
nite purpose,  for  it  was  fighting  the  tide,  and 
sometimes  winning;  and  when  it  won,  Peter,  al- 
ways sympathetic  to  the  weaker  side,  could  not 
help  clapping;  it  was  such  a  gallant  piece  of  paper. 

It  was  not  really  a  piece  of  paper;  it  was  the 
Never  bird,  making  desperate  efforts  to  reach 

119 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

Peter  on  her  nest.  By  working  her  wings,  in  a 
way  she  had  learned  since  the  nest  fell  into  the 
water,  she  was  able  to  some  extent  to  guide  her 
strange  craft,  but  by  the  time  Peter  recognised  her 
she  was  very  exhausted.  She  had  come  to  save 
him,  to  give  him  her  nest,  though  there  were  eggs 
in  it.  I  rather  wonder  at  the  bird,  for  though  he 
had  been  nice  to  her,  he  had  also  sometimes  tor- 
mented her.  I  can  suppose  only  that,  like  Mrs. 
Darling  and  the  rest  of  them,  she  was  melted  be- 
cause he  had  all  his  first  teeth. 

She  called  out  to  him  what  she  had  come  for, 
and  he  called  out  to  her  what  was  she  doing  there ; 
but  of  course  neither  of  them  understood  the 
other's  language.  In  fanciful  stories  people  can 
talk  to  the  birds  freely,  and  I  wish  for  the  moment 
I  could  pretend  that  this  was  such  a  story,  and  say 
that  Peter  replied  intelligently  to  the  Never  bird; 
but  truth  is  best,  and  I  want  to  tell  only  what 
really  happened.  Well,  not  only  could  they  not 
understand  each  other,  but  they  forgot  their  man- 
ners. 

"I — want  —  you  —  to  —  get— into — the— nest," 
the  bird  called,  speaking  as  slowly  and  distinctly 
as  possible,  '  'and  —  then  —  you — can — drift — 
ashore,  but — I — am — too — tired — to — bring — it 
— any — nearer — so — you — must — try — to — swim 
—to— it." 

"What  are  you  quacking  about*?"   Peter  an- 
120 


swered.     "Why  don't  you  let  the  nest  drift  as 
usual?" 

"I — want — you — "  the  bird  said,  and  repeated 
it  all  over. 

Then  Peter  tried  slow  and  distinct. 
'  'What — are — you — quacking — about  ?"     and 
so  on. 

The  Never  bird  became  irritated;  they  have 
very  short  tempers. 

"You  dunderheaded  little  jay,"  she  screamed, 
"why  don't  you  do  as  I  tell  you1?" 

Peter  felt  that  she  was  calling  him  names,  and 
at  a  venture  he  retorted  hotly : 

"So  are  you !" 

Then  rather  curiously  they  both  snapped  out 
the  same  remark. 

"Shut  up!" 

"Shut  up!" 

Nevertheless  the  bird  was  determined  to  save 
him  if  she  could,  and  by  one  last  mighty  effort  she 
propelled  the  nest  against  the  rock.  Then  up  she 
flew ;  deserting  her  eggs,  so  as  to  make  her  meaning 
clear. 

Then  at  last  he  understood,  and  clutched  the 
nest  and  waved  his  thanks  to  the  bird  as  she  flut- 
tered overhead.  It  was  not  to  receive  his  thanks, 
however,  that  she  hung  there  in  the  sky ;  it  was  not 
even  to  watch  him  get  into  the  nest;  it  was  to  see 
what  he  did  with  her  eggs. 

121 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

There  were  two  large  white  eggs,  and  Peter 
lifted  them  up  and  reflected.  The  bird  covered 
her  face  with  her  wings,  so  as  not  to  see  the  last  of 
them ;  but  she  could  not  help  peeping  between  the 
feathers. 

I  forget  whether  I  have  told  you  that  there  was 
a  stave  on  the  rock,  driven  into  it  by  some  buc- 
caneers of  long  ago  to  mark  the  site  of  buried 
treasure.  The  children  had  discovered  the  glitter- 
ing hoard,  and  when  in  mischievous  mood  used  to 
fling  showers  of  moidores,  diamonds,  pearls  and 
pieces  of  eight  to  the  gulls,  who  pounced  upon 
them  for  food,  and  then  flew  away,  raging  at  the 
scurvy  trick  that  had  been  played  upon  them.  The 
stave  was  still  there,  and  on  it  Starkey  had  hung 
his  hat,  a  deep  tarpaulin,  watertight,  with  a  broad 
brim.  Peter  put  the  eggs  into  this  hat  and  set  it 
on  the  lagoon.  It  floated  beautifully. 

The  Never  bird  saw  at  once  what  he  was  up  to, 
and  screamed  her  admiration  of  him;  and,  alas, 
Peter  crowed  his  agreement  with  her.  Then  he 
got  into  the  nest,  reared  the  stave  in  it  as  a  mast, 
and  hung  up  his  shirt  for  a  sail.  At  the  same  mo- 
ment the  bird  fluttered  down  upon  the  hat  and 
once  more  sat  snugly  on  her  eggs.  She  drifted  in 
one  direction,  and  he  was  borne  off  in  another,  both 
cheering. 

Of  course  when  Peter  landed  he  beached  his 
barque  in  a  place  where  the  bird  would  easily  find 

122 


THE  NEVER  BIRD 

it;  but  the  hat  was  such  a  great  success  that  she 
abandoned  the  nest.  It  drifted  about  till  it  went 
to  pieces,  and  often  Starkey  came  to  the  shore  of 
the  lagoon,  and  with  many  bitter  feelings  watched 
the  bird  sitting  on  his  hat.  As  we  shall  not  see  her 
again,  it  may  be  worth  mentioning  here  that  all 
Never  birds  now  build  in  that  shape  of  nest,  with 
a  broad  brim  on  which  the  youngsters  take  an 
airing. 

Great  were  the  rejoicings  when  Peter  reached 
the  home  under  the  ground  almost  as  soon  as 
Wendy,  who  had  been  carried  hither  and  thither 
by  the  kite.  Every  boy  had  adventures  to  tell ;  but 
perhaps  the  biggest  adventure  of  all  was  that  they 
were  several  hours  late  for  bed.  This  so  inflated 
them  that  they  did  various  dodgy  things  to  get 
staying  up  still  longer,  such  as  demanding  ban- 
dages; but  Wendy,  though  glorying  in  having 
them  all  home  again  safe  and  sound,  was  scandal- 
ised by  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  and  cried,  "To 
bed,  to  bed,"  in  a  voice  that  had  to  be  obeyed. 
Next  day,  however,  she  was  awfully  tender,  and 
gave  out  bandages  to  every  one,  and  they  played 
till  bed-time  at  limping  about  and  carrying  their 
arms  in  slings. 


123 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  HAPPY  HOME 

ONE  important  result  of  the  brush  on  the  lagoon 
was  that  it  made  the  redskins  their  friends.  Peter 
had  saved  Tiger  Lily  from  a  dreadful  fate,  and 
now  there  was  nothing  she  and  her  braves  would 
not  do  for  him.  All  night  they  sat  above,  keeping 
watch  over  the  home  under  the  ground  and  await- 
ing the  big  attack  by  the  pirates  which  obviously 
could  not  be  much  longer  delayed.  Even  by  day 
they  hung  about,  smoking  the  pipe  of  peace,  and 
looking  almost  as  if  they  wanted  tit-bits  to  eat. 

They  called  Peter  the  Great  White  Father, 
prostrating  themselves  before  him;  and  he  liked 
this  tremendously,  so  that  it  was  not  really  good 
for  him. 

"The  great  white  father,"  he  would  say  to  them 
in  a  very  lordly  manner,  as  they  grovelled  at  his 
feet,  "is  glad  to  see  the  Piccaninny  warriors  pro- 
tecting his  wigwam  from  the  pirates." 

"Me  Tiger  Lily,"  that  lovely  creature  would 
reply,  "Peter  Pan  save  me,  me  his  velly  nice 
friend.  Me  no  let  pirates  hurt  him." 

124 


THE  HAPPY  HOME 

She  was  far  too  pretty  to  cringe  in  this  way,  but 
Peter  thought  it  his  due,  and  he  would  answer  con- 
descendingly, "It  is  good.  Peter  Pan  has  spoken." 

Always  when  he  said,  "Peter  Pan  has  spoken," 
it  meant  that  they  must  now  shut  up,  and  they 
accepted  it  humbly  in  that  spirit ;  but  they  were  by 
no  means  so  respectful  to  the  other  boys,  whom 
they  looked  upon  as  just  ordinary  braves.  They 
said  "How-do?"  to  them,  and  things  like  that; 
and  what  annoyed  the  boys  was  that  Peter  seemed 
to  think  this  all  right. 

Secretly  Wendy  sympathised  with  them  a  little, 
but  she  was  far  too  loyal  a  housewife  to  listen  to 
any  complaints  against  father.  "Father  knows 
best,"  she  always  said,  whatever  her  private  opin- 
ion must  be.  Her  private  opinion  was  that  the 
redskins  should  not  call  her  a  squaw. 

We  have  now  reached  the  evening  that  was  to  be 
known  among  them  as  the  Night  of  Nights,  be- 
cause of  its  adventures  and  their  upshot.  The 
day,  as  if  quietly  gathering  its  forces,  had  been 
almost  uneventful,  and  now  the  redskins  in  their 
blankets  were  at  their  posts  above,  while,  below, 
the  children  were  having  their  evening  meal;  all 
except  Peter,  who  had  gone  out  to  get  the  time. 
The  way  you  got  the  time  on  the  island  was  to  find 
the  crocodile,  and  then  stay  near  him  till  the  clock 
struck. 

This  meal  happened  to  be  a  make-believe  tea, 
125 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

and  they  sat  round  the  board,  guzzling  in  their 
greed;  and  really,  what  with  their  chatter  and 
recriminations,  the  noise,  as  Wendy  said,  was  posi- 
tively deafening.  To  be  sure,  she  did  not  mind 
noise,  but  she  simply  would  not  have  them  grab- 
bing things,  and  then  excusing  themselves  by  say- 
ing that  Tootles  had  pushed  their  elbow.  There 
was  a  fixed  rule  that  they  must  never  hit  back  at 
meals,  but  should  refer  the  matter  of  dispute  to 
Wendy  by  raising  the  right  arm  politely  and  say- 
ing, "I  complain  of  so-and-so";  but  what  usually 
happened  was  that  they  forgot  to  do  this  or  did  it 
too  much. 

"Silence,"  cried  Wendy  when  for  the  twentieth 
time  she  had  told  them  that  they  were  not  all  to 
speak  at  once.  "Is  your  mug  empty,  Slightly 
darling?" 

"Not  quite  empty,  mummy,"  Slightly  said,  after 
looking  into  an  imaginary  mug. 

"He  hasn't  even  begun  to  drink  his  milk,"  Nibs 
interposed. 

This  was  telling,  and  Slightly  seized  his  chance. 

"I  complain  of  Nibs,"  he  cried  promptly. 

John,  however,  had  held  up  his  hand  first. 

"Well,  John?" 

"May  I  sit  in  Peter's  chair,  as  he  is  not  here?" 

"Sit  in  father's  chair,  John!"  Wendy  was 
scandalised.  "Certainly  not." 

"He  is  not  really  our  father,"  John  answered. 
126 


THE  HAPPY  HOME 

"He  didn't  even  know  how  a  father  does  till  I 
showed  him." 

This  was  grumbling.  "We  complain  of  John," 
cried  the  twins. 

Tootles  held  up  his  hand.  He  was  so  much  the 
humblest  of  them,  indeed  he  was  the  only  humble 
one,  that  Wendy  was  specially  gentle  with  him. 

"I  don't  suppose,"  Tootles  said  diffidently, 
"that  I  could  be  father." 

"No,  Tootles." 

Once  Tootles  began,  which  was  not  very  often, 
he  had  a  silly  way  of  going  on. 

"As  I  can't  be  father,"  he  said  heavily,  "I  don't 
suppose,  Michael,  you  would  let  me  be  baby*?" 

"No,  I  won't,"  Michael  rapped  out.  He  was 
already  in  his  basket. 

"As  I  can't  be  baby,"  Tootles  said,  getting 
heavier  and  heavier,  "do  you  think  I  could  be  a 
twin?" 

"No,  indeed,"  replied  the  twins;  "it's  awfully 
difficult  to  be  a  twin." 

"As  I  can't  be  anything  important,"  said 
Tootles,  "would  any  of  you  like  to  see  me  do  a 
trick?" 

"No,"  they  all  replied. 

Then  at  last  he  stopped.  "I  hadn't  really  any 
hope,"  he  said. 

The  hateful  telling  broke  out  again. 

"Slightly  is  coughing  on  the  table." 
127 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

"The  twins  began  with  cheese-cakes." 

"Curly  is  taking  both  butter  and  honey.'* 

"Nibs  is  speaking  with  his  mouth  full." 

"I  complain  of  the  twins." 

"I  complain  of  Curly." 

"I  complain  of  Nibs." 

"Oh  dear,  oh  dear,"  cried  Wendy,  "I'm  sure  I 
sometimes  think  that  spinsters  are  to  be  envied." 

She  told  them  to  clear  away,  and  sat  down  to 
her  work-basket,  a  heavy  load  of  stockings  and 
every  knee  with  a  hole  in  it  as  usual. 

"Wendy,"  remonstrated  Michael,  "I'm  too  big 
for  a  cradle." 

"I  must  have  somebody  in  a  cradle,"  she  said 
almost  tartly,  "and  you  are  the  littlest.  A  cradle 
is  such  a  nice  homely  thing  to  have  about  a 
house." 

While  she  sewed  they  played  around  her;  such 
a  group  of  happy  faces  and  dancing  limbs  lit  up 
by  that  romantic  fire.  It  had  become  a  very  fa- 
miliar scene  this  in  the  home  under  the  ground, 
but  we  are  looking  on  it  for  the  last  time. 

There  was  a  step  above,  and  Wendy,  you  may 
be  sure,  was  the  first  to  recognise  it. 

"Children,  I  hear  your  father's  step.  He  likes 
you  to  meet  him  at  the  door." 

Above,  the  redskins  crouched  before  Peter. 

"Watch  well,  braves.    I  have  spoken." 

And  then,  as  so  often  before,  the  gay  children 


THE  HAPPY  HOME 

dragged  him  from  his  tree.     As  so  often  before, 
but  never  again. 

He  had  brought  nuts  for  the  boys  as  well  as  the 
correct  time  for  Wendy. 

"Peter,  you  just  spoil  them,  you  know,"  Wendy 
simpered. 

"Ah,  old  lady,"  said  Peter,  hanging  up  his  gun. 

"It  was  me  told  him  mothers  are  called  old 
lady,"  Michael  whispered  to  Curly. 

"I  complain  of  Michael,"  said  Curly  instantly. 

The  first  twin  came  to  Peter.  "Father,  we  want 
to  dance." 

"Dance  away,  my  little  man,"  said  Peter,  who 
was  in  high  good  humour. 

"But  we  want  you  to  dance." 

Peter  was  really  the  best  dancer  among  them, 
but  he  pretended  to  be  scandalised. 

"Me !    My  old  bones  would  rattle !" 

"And  mummy  too." 

"What !"  cried  Wendy,  "the  mother  of  such  an 
armful,  dance !" 

"But  on  a  Saturday  night,"  Slightly  insinuated. 

It  was  not  really  Saturday  night,  at  least  it  may 
have  been,  for  they  had  long  lost  count  of  the 
days;  but  always  if  they  wanted  to  do  anything 
special  they  said  this  was  Saturday  night,  and  then 
they  did  it. 

"Of  course  it  is  Saturday  night,  Peter,"  Wendy 
said,  relenting. 

129 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

"People  of  our  figure,  Wendy !" 

"But  it  is  only  among  our  own  progeny." 

"True,  true." 

So  they  were  told  they  could  dance,  but  they 
must  put  on  their  nighties  first. 

"Ah,  old  lady,"  Peter  said  aside  to  Wendy, 
warming  himself  by  the  fire  and  looking  down  at 
her  as  she  sat  turning  a  heel,  "there  is  nothing 
more  pleasant  of  an  evening  for  you  and  me  when 
the  day's  toil  is  over  than  to  rest  by  the  fire  with 
the  little  ones  near  by." 

"It  is  sweet,  Peter,  isn't  it?"  Wendy  said, 
frightfully  gratified.  "Peter,  I  think  Curly  has 
your  nose." 

"Michael  takes  after  you." 

She  went  to  him  and  put  her  hand  on  his  shoul- 
der. 

"Dear  Peter,"  she  said,  "with  such  a  large  fam- 
ily, of  course,  I  have  now  passed  my  best,  but  you 
don't  want  to  change  me,  do  you*?" 

"No,  Wendy." 

Certainly  he  did  not  want  a  change,  but  he 
looked  at  her  uncomfortably,  blinking,  you  know, 
like  one  not  sure  whether  he  was  awake  or  asleep. 

"Peter,  what  is  it?" 

"I  was  just  thinking,"  he  said,  a  little  scared. 
"It  is  only  make-believe,  isn't  it,  that  I  am  their 
father?" 

"Oh  yes,"  Wendy  said  primly. 
130 


THE  HAPPY  HOME 

"You  see,"  he  continued  apologetically,  "itwould 
make  me  seem  so  old  to  be  their  real  father." 

"But  they  are  ours,  Peter,  yours  and  mine." 

"But  not  really,  Wendy?"  he  asked  anxiously. 

"Not  if  you  don't  wish  it,"  she  replied;  and  she 
distinctly  heard  his  sigh  of  relief.  "Peter,"  she 
asked,  trying  to  speak  firmly,  "what  are  your  exact 
feelings  to  me*?" 

"Those  of  a  devoted  son,  Wendy." 

"I  thought  so,"  she  said,  and  went  and  sat  by 
herself  at  the  extreme  end  of  the  room. 

"You  are  so  queer,"  he  said,  frankly  puzzled, 
"and  Tiger  Lily  is  just  the  same.  There  is  some- 
thing she  wants  to  be  to  me,  but  she  says  it  is  not 
my  mother." 

"No,  indeed,  it  is  not,"  Wendy  replied  with 
frightful  emphasis.  Now  we  know  why  she  was 
prejudiced  against  the  redskins. 

'Then  what  is  it?" 

"It  isn't  for  a  lady  to  tell." 

"Oh,  very  well,"  Peter  said,  a  little  nettled. 
"Perhaps  Tinker  Bell  will  tell  me." 

"Oh  yes,  Tinker  Bell  will  tell  you,"  Wendy 
retorted  scornfully.  "She  is  an  abandoned  little 
creature." 

Here  Tink,  who  was  in  her  bedroom,  eaves- 
dropping, squeaked  out  something  impudent. 

"She  says  she  glories  in  being  abandoned," 
Peter  interpreted. 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

He  had  a  sudden  idea.  "Perhaps  Tink  wants 
to  be  my  mother1?" 

"You  silly  ass!"  cried  Tinker  Bell  in  a  pas- 
sion. 

She  had  said  it  so  often  that  Wendy  needed 
no  translation. 

"I  almost  agree  with  her,"  Wendy  snapped. 
Fancy  Wendy  snapping !  But  she  had  been  much 
tried,  and  she  little  knew  what  was  to  happen  be- 
fore the  night  was  out.  If  she  had  known  she 
would  not  have  snapped. 

None  of  them  knew.  Perhaps  it  was  best  not 
to  know.  Their  ignorance  gave  them  one  more 
glad  hour;  and  as  it  was  to  be  their  last  hour  on 
the  island,  let  us  rejoice  that  there  were  sixty  glad 
minutes  in  it.  They  sang  and  danced  in  their 
night-gowns.  Such  a  deliciously  creepy  song  it 
was,  in  which  they  pretended  to  be  frightened  at 
their  own  shadows,  little  witting  that  so  soon 
shadows  would  close  in  upon  them,  from  whom 
they  would  shrink  in  real  fear.  So  uproariously 
gay  was  the  dance,  and  how  they  buffeted  each 
other  on  the  bed  and  out  of  it !  It  was  a  pillow 
fight  rather  than  a  dance,  and  when  it  was  fin- 
ished, the  pillows  insisted  on  one  bout  more,  like 
partners  who  know  that  they  may  never  meet 
again.  The  stories  they  told,  before  it  was  time 
for  Wendy's  good-night  story!  Even  Slightly 
tried  to  tell  a  story  that  night,  and  the  beginning 

132 


THE  HAPPY  HOME 

was  so  fearfully  dull  that  it  appalled  not  only  the 
others  but  himself,  and  he  said  happily : 

"Yes,  it  is  a  dull  beginning.  I  say,  let  us  pre- 
tend that  it  is  the  end." 

And  then  at  last  they  all  got  into  bed  for 
Wendy's  story,  the  story  they  loved  best,  the  story 
Peter  hated.  Usually  when  she  began  to  tell  this 
story,  he  left  the  room  or  put  his  hands  over  his 
ears;  and  possibly  if  he  had  done  either  of  those 
things  this  time  they  might  all  still  be  on  the 
island.  But  to-night  he  remained  on  his  stool; 
and  we  shall  see  what  happened. 


133 


CHAPTER  XI 

WENDY'S  STORY 

"LISTEN,  then,"  said  Wendy,  settling  down  to  her 
story,  with  Michael  at  her  feet  and  seven  boys  in 
the  bed.  "There  was  once  a  gentleman 

"I  had  rather  he  had  been  a  lady,"  Curly  said. 

"I  wish  he  had  been  a  white  rat,"  said  Nibs. 

"Quiet,"  their  mother  admonished  them. 
"There  was  a  lady  also,  and " 

"O  mummy,"  cried  the  first  twin,  "you  mean 
that  there  is  a  lady  also,  don't  you?  She  is  not 
dead,  is  she?" 

"Oh  no." 

"I  am  awfully  glad  she  isn't  dead,"  said 
Tootles.  "Are  you  glad,  John?" 

"Of  course  I  am." 

"Are  you  glad,  Nibs?" 

"Rather." 

"Are  you  glad,  Twins?" 

"We  are  just  glad." 

"Oh  dear,"  sighed  Wendy. 

"Little  less  noise  there,"  Peter  called  out,  de- 
termined that  she  should  have  fair  play,  however 
beastly  a  story  it  might  be  in  his  opinion. 

134 


WENDY'S  STORY 


WENDY'S  STORY 

"The  gentleman's  name,"  Wendy  continued, 
"was  Mr.  Darling,  and  her  name  was  Mrs. 
Darling." 

"I  knew  them,"  John  said,  to  annoy  the  others. 

"I  think  I  knew  them,"  said  Michael  rather 
doubtfully. 

"They  were  married,  you  know,"  explained 
Wendy,  "and  what  do  you  think  they  had?" 

"White  rats !"  cried  Nibs,  inspired. 

"No." 

"It's  awfully  puzzling,"  said  Tootles,  who 
knew  the  story  by  heart. 

"Quiet,  Tootles.    They  had  three  descendants." 

"What  is  descendants'?" 

"Well,  you  are  one,  Twin." 

"Do  you  hear  that,  John"?  I  am  a  descen- 
dant." 

"Descendants  are  only  children,"  said  John. 

"Oh  dear,  oh  dear,"  sighed  Wendy.  "Now 
these  three  children  had  a  faithful  nurse  called 
Nana;  but  Mr.  Darling  was  angry  with  her  and 
chained  her  up  in  the  yard,  and  so  all  the  children 
flew  away." 

"It's  an  awfully  good  story,"  said  Nibs. 

"They  flew  away,"  Wendy  continued,  "to  the 
Neverland,  where  the  lost  children  are." 

"I  just  thought  they  did,"  Curly  broke  in  excit- 
edly. "I  don't  know  how  it  is,  but  I  just  thought 
they  did!" 

135 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

"O  Wendy,"  cried  Tootles,  "was  one  of  the  lost 
children  called  Tootles'?" 

"Yes,  he  was." 

"I  am  in  a  story.  Hurrah,  I  am  in  a  story, 
Nibs." 

"Hush.  Now  I  want  you  to  consider  the  feel- 
ings of  the  unhappy  parents  with  all  their  children 
flown  away." 

"Oo!"  they  all  moaned,  though  they  were  not 
really  considering  the  feelings  of  the  unhappy  par- 
ents one  jot. 

"Think  of  the  empty  beds !" 

"Oo!" 

"It's  awfully  sad,"  the  first  twin  said  cheer- 
fully. 

"I  don't  see  how  it  can  have  a  happy  ending," 
said  the  second  twin.  "Do  you,  Nibs'?" 

"I'm  frightfully  anxious." 

"If  you  knew  how  great  is  a  mother's  love," 
Wendy  told  them  triumphantly,  "you  would  have 
no  fear."  She  had  now  come  to  the  part  that 
Peter  hated. 

"I  do  like  a  mother's  love,"  said  Tootles,  hit- 
ting Nibs  with  a  pillow.  "Do  you  like  a  mother's 
love,  Nibs'?" 

"I  do  just,"  said  Nibs,  hitting  back. 

"You  see,"  Wendy  said  complacently,  "our 
heroine  knew  that  the  mother  would  always  leave 
the  window  open  for  her  children  to  fly  back  by; 

136 


WENDY'S  STORY 

so  they  stayed  away  for  years  and  had  a  lovely 
time." 

"Did  they  ever  go  back?' 

"Let  us  now,"  said  Wendy,  bracing  herself  up 
for  her  finest  effort,  "take  a  peep  into  the  future" ; 
and  they  all  gave  themselves  the  twist  that  makes 
peeps  into  the  future  easier.  "Years  have  rolled 
by,  and  who  is  this  elegant  lady  of  uncertain  age 
alighting  at  London  Station?" 

"O  Wendy,  who  is  she1?"  cried  Nibs,  every  bit 
as  excited  as  if  he  didn't  know. 

"Can  it  be — yes — no — it  is — the  fair  Wendy!" 

"Oh!" 

"And  who  are  the  two  noble  portly  figures  ac- 
companying her,  now  grown  to  man's  estate*?  Can 
they  be  John  and  Michael?  They  are !" 

"Oh!" 

"  'See,  dear  brothers,'  says  Wendy,  pointing 
upwards,  "  'there  is  the  window  still  standing 
open.  Ah,  now  we  are  rewarded  for  our  sublime 
faith  in  a  mother's  love.'  So  up  they  flew  to  their 
mummy  and  daddy,  and  pen  cannot  describe  the 
happy  scene,  over  which  we  draw  a  veil." 

That  was  the  story,  and  they  were  as  pleased 
with  it  as  the  fair  narrator  herself.  Everything 
just  as  it  should  be,  you  see.  Off  we  skip  like  the 
most  heartless  things  in  the  world,  which  is  what 
children  are,  but  so  attractive;  and  we  have  an 
entirely  selfish  time,  and  then  when  we  have  need 

137 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

of  special  attention  we  nobly  return  for  it,  confi- 
dent that  we  shall  be  rewarded  instead  of  smacked. 

So  great  indeed  was  their  faith  in  a  mother's 
love  that  they  felt  they  could  afford  to  be  callous 
for  a  bit  longer. 

But  there  was  one  there  who  knew  better,  and 
when  Wendy  finished  he  uttered  a  hollow  groan. 

"What  is  it,  Peter1?"  she  cried,  running  to  him, 
thinking  he  was  ill.  She  felt  him  solicitously, 
lower  down  than  his  chest.  "Where  is  it,  Peter?" 

"It  isn't  that  kind  of  pain,"  Peter  replied 
darkly. 

"Then  what  kind  is  it?" 

"Wendy,  you  are  wrong  about  mothers." 

They  all  gathered  round  him  in  affright,  so 
alarming  was  his  agitation;  and  with  a  fine  can- 
dour he  told  them  what  he  had  hitherto  concealed. 

"Long  ago,"  he  said,  "I  thought  like  you  that 
my  mother  would  always  keep  the  window  open 
for  me,  so  I  stayed  away  for  moons  and  moons  and 
moons,  and  then  flew  back;  but  the  window  was 
barred,  for  mother  had  forgotten  all  about  me,  and 
there  was  another  little  boy  sleeping  in  my  bed." 

I  am  not  sure  that  this  was  true,  but  Peter 
thought  it  was  true ;  and  it  scared  them. 

"Are  you  sure  mothers  are  like  that?" 

"Yes." 

So  this  was  the  truth  about  mothers.  The  toads ! 

Still  it  is  best  to  be  careful;  and  no  one  knows 

138 


WENDY'S  STORY 

so  quickly  as  a  child  when  he  should  give  in. 
"Wendy,  let  us  go  home,"  cried  John  and  Michael 
together. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  clutching  them. 

"Not  to-night1?"  asked  the  lost  boys  bewildered. 
They  knew  in  what  they  called  their  hearts  that 
one  can  get  on  quite  well  without  a  mother,  and 
that  it  is  only  the  mothers  who  think  you  can't. 

"At  once,"  Wendy  replied  resolutely,  for  the 
horrible  thought  had  come  to  her:  "Perhaps 
mother  is  in  half  mourning  by  this  time." 

This  dread  made  her  forgetful  of  what  must  be 
Peter's  feelings,  and  she  said  to  him  rather  sharply, 
"Peter,  will  you  make  the  necessary  arrange- 
ments'?" 

"If  you  wish  it,"  he  replied,  as  coolly  as  if  she 
had  asked  him  to  pass  the  nuts. 

Not  so  much  as  a  sorry-to-lose-you  between 
them!  If  she  did  not  mind  the  parting,  he  was 
going  to  show  her,  was  Peter,  that  neither  did  he. 

But  of  course  he  cared  very  much;  and  he  was 
so  full  of  wrath  against  grown-ups,  who,  as  usual, 
were  spoiling  everything,  that  as  soon  as  he  got 
inside  his  tree  he  breathed  intentionally  quick 
short  breaths  at  the  rate  of  about  five  to  a  second. 
He  did  this  because  there  is  a  saying  in  the  Never- 
land  that,  every  time  you  breathe,  a  grown-up 
dies;  and  Peter  was  killing  them  off  vindictively 
as  fast  as  possible. 

139 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

Then  having  given  the  necessary  instructions  to 
the  redskins  he  returned  to  the  home,  where  an 
unworthy  scene  had  been  enacted  in  his  absence. 
Panic-stricken  at  the  thought  of  losing  Wendy 
the  lost  boys  had  advanced  upon  her  threaten- 
ingly. 

"It  will  be  worse  than  before  she  came,"  they 
cried. 

"We  shan't  let  her  go." 

"Let's  keep  her  prisoner." 

"Ay,  chain  her  up." 

In  her  extremity  an  instinct  told  her  to  which  of 
them  to  turn. 

"Tootles,"  she  cried,  "I  appeal  to  you." 

Was  it  not  strange?  she  appealed  to  Tootles, 
quite  the  silliest  one. 

Grandly,  however,  did  Tootles  respond.  For 
that  one  moment  he  dropped  his  silliness  and 
spoke  with  dignity. 

"I  am  just  Tootles,"  he  said,  "and  nobody 
minds  me.  But  the  first  who  does  not  behave  to 
Wendy  like  an  English  gentleman  I  will  blood 
him  severely." 

He  drew  his  hanger;  and  for  that  instant  his 
sun  was  at  noon.  The  others  held  back  uneasily. 
Then  Peter  returned,  and  they  saw  at  once  that 
they  would  get  no  support  from  him.  He  would 
keep  no  girl  in  the  Neverland  against  her  will. 

"Wendy,"  he  said,  striding  up  and  down,  "I 
140 


WENDY'S  STORY 

have  asked  the  redskins  to  guide  you  through  the 
wood,  as  flying  tires  you  so." 

"Thank  you,  Peter." 

"Then,"  he  continued,  in  the  short  sharp  voice 
of  one  accustomed  to  be  obeyed,  "Tinker  Bell 
will  take  you  across  the  sea.  Wake  her,  Nibs." 

Nibs  had  to  knock  twice  before  he  got  an  an- 
swer, though  Tink  had  really  been  sitting  up  in 
bed  listening  for  some  time. 

"Who  are  you?  How  dare  you?  Go  away," 
she  cried. 

"You  are  to  get  up,  Tink,"  Nibs  called,  "and 
take  Wendy  on  a  journey." 

Of  course  Tink  had  been  delighted  to  hear  that 
Wendy  was  going;  but  she  was  jolly  well  deter- 
mined not  to  be  her  courier,  and  she  said  so  in  still 
more  offensive  language.  Then  she  pretended  to 
be  asleep  again. 

"She  says  she  won't!"  Nibs  exclaimed,  aghast 
at  such  insubordination,  whereupon  Peter  went 
sternly  toward  the  young  lady's  chamber. 

"Tink,"  he  rapped  out,  "if  you  don't  get  up 
and  dress  at  once  I  will  open  the  curtains,  and 
then  we  shall  all  see  you  in  your  negligee" 

This  made  her  leap  to  the  floor.  "Who  said  I 
wasn't  getting  up?"  she  cried. 

In  the  meantime  the  boys  were  gazing  very  for- 
lornly at  Wendy,  now  equipped  with  John  and 
Michael  for  the  journey.  By  this  time  they  were 

141 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

dejected,  not  merely  because  they  were  about  to 
lose  her,  but  also  because  they  felt  that  she  was 
going  off  to  something  nice  to  which  they  had  not 
been  invited.  Novelty  was  beckoning  to  them  as 
usual. 

Crediting  them  with  a  nobler  feeling,  Wendy 
melted. 

"Dear  ones,"  she  said,  "if  you  will  all  come 
with  me  I  feel  almost  sure  I  can  get  my  father 
and  mother  to  adopt  you." 

'  The  invitation  was  meant  specially  for  Peter, 
but  each  of  the  boys  was  thinking  exclusively  of 
himself,  and  at  once  they  jumped  with  joy. 

"But  won't  they  think  us  rather  a  handful*?" 
Nibs  asked  in  the  middle  of  his  jump. 

"Oh  no,"  said  Wendy,  rapidly  thinking  it  out, 
"it  will  only  mean  having  a  few  beds  in  the  draw- 
ing-room; they  can  be  hidden  behind  screens  on 
first  Thursdays." 

"Peter,  can  we  go?"  they  all  cried  imploringly. 
They  took  it  for  .granted  that  if  they  went  he 
would  go  also,  but  really  they  scarcely  cared. 
Thus  children  are  ever  ready,  when  novelty 
knocks,  to  desert  their  dearest  ones. 

"All  right,"  Peter  replied  with  a  bitter  smile, 
and  immediately  they  rushed  to  get  their  things. 

"And  now,  Peter,"  Wendy  said,  thinking  she 
had  put  everything  right,  "I  am  going  to  give  you 
your  medicine  before  you  go."  She  loved  to  give 

142 


WENDY'S  STORY 

them  medicine,  and  undoubtedly  gave  them  too 
much.  Of  course  it  was  only  water,  but  it  was  out 
of  a  bottle,  .and  she  always  shook  the  bottle  and 
counted  the  drops,  which  gave  it  a  certain  medici- 
nal quality.  On  this  occasion,  however,  she  did 
not  give  Peter  his  draught,  for  just  as  she  had 
prepared  it,  she  saw  a  look  on  his  face  that  made 
her  heart  sink. 

"Get  your  things,  Peter,"  she  cried,  shaking. 

"No,"  he  answered,  pretending  indifference, 
"I  am  not  going  with  you,  Wendy." 

"Yes,  Peter." 

"No." 

To  show  that  her  departure  would  leave  him 
unmoved,  he  skipped  up  and  down  the  room, 
playing  gaily  on  his  heartless  pipes.  She  had  to 
run  about  after  him,  though  it  was  rather  undig- 
nified. 

"To  find  your  mother,"  she  coaxed. 

Now,  if  Peter  had  ever  quite  had  a  mother,  he 
no  longer  missed  her.  He  could  do  very  well 
without  one.  He  had  thought  them  out,  and  re- 
membered only  their  bad  points. 

"No,  no,"  he  told  Wendy  decisively;  "perhaps 
she  would  say  I  was  old,  and  I  just  want  always 
to  be  a  little  boy  and  to  have  fun." 

"But,  Peter " 

"No." 

And  so  the  others  had  to  be  told. 

H3 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

"Peter  isn't  coming." 

Peter  not  coming !  They  gazed  blankly  at  him, 
their  sticks  over  their  backs,  and  on  each  stick  a 
bundle.  Their  first  thought  was  that  if  Peter  was 
not  going  he  had  probably  changed  his  mind  about 
letting  them  go. 

But  he  was  far  too  proud  for  that.  "If  you  find 
your  mothers,"  he  said  darkly,  "I  hope  you  will 
like  them." 

The  awful  cynicism  of  this  made  an  uncom- 
fortable impression,  and  most  of  them  began  to 
look  rather  doubtful.  After  all,  their  faces  said, 
were  they  not  noodles  to  want  to  go"? 

"Now  then,"  cried  Peter,  "no  fuss,  no  blubber- 
ing; good-bye,  Wendy" ;  and  he  held  out  his  hand 
cheerily,  quite  as  if  they  must  really  go  now,  for 
he  had  something  important  to  do. 

She  had  to  take  his  hand,  as  there  was  no  indica- 
tion that  he  would  prefer  a  thimble. 

"You  will  remember  about  changing  your  flan- 
nels, Peter?"  she  said,  lingering  over  him.  She 
was  always  so  particular  about  their  flannels. 

"Yes." 

"And  you  will  take  your  medicine?" 

"Yes." 

That  seemed  to  be  everything,  and  an  awkward 
pause  followed.  Peter,  however,  was  not  the  kind 
that  breaks  down  before  people.  "Are  you  ready, 
Tinker  Bell?"  he  called  out. 

144 


WENDY'S  STORY 

"Ay  lay!" 

"Then  lead  the  way." 

Tink  darted  up  the  nearest  tree;  but  no  one 
followed  her,  for  it  was  at  this  moment  that  the 
pirates  made  their  dreadful  attack  upon  the  red- 
skins. Above,  where  all  had  been  so  still,  the  air 
was  rent  with  shrieks  and  the  clash  of  steel.  Be- 
low, there  was  dead  silence.  Mouths  opened  and 
remained  open.  Wendy  fell  on  her  knees,  but  her 
arms  were  extended  toward  Peter.  All  arms  were 
extended  to  him,  as  if  suddenly  blown  in  his  direc- 
tion; they  were  beseeching  him  mutely  not  to 
desert  them.  As  for  Peter,  he  seized  his  sword,  the 
same  he  thought  he  had  slain  Barbecue  with,  and 
the  lust  of  battle  was  in  his  eye. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  CHILDREN  ARE  CARRIED  OFF 

THE  pirate  attack  had  been  a  complete  surprise: 
a  sure  proof  that  the  unscrupulous  Hook  had  con- 
ducted it  improperly,  for  to  surprise  redskins 
fairly  is  beyond  the  wit  of  the  white  man. 

By  all  the  unwritten  laws  of  savage  warfare  it 
is  always  the  redskin  who  attacks,  and  with  the 
wiliness  of  his  race  he  does  it  just  before  the  dawn, 
at  which  time  he  knows  the  courage  of  the  whites 
to  be  at  its  lowest  ebb.  The  white  men  have  in 
the  meantime  made  a  rude  stockade  on  the  sum- 
mit of  yonder  undulating  ground,  at  the  foot  of 
which  a  stream  runs,  for  it  is  destruction  to  be  too 
far  from  water.  There  they  await  the  onslaught, 
the  inexperienced  ones  clutching  their  revolvers 
and  treading  on  twigs,  but  the  old  hands  sleeping 
tranquilly  until  just  before  the  dawn.  Through 
the  long  black  night  the  savage  scouts  wriggle, 
snake-like,  among  the  grass  without  stirring  a 
blade.  The  brushwood  closes  behind  them  as 
silently  as  sand  into  which  a  mole  has  dived.  Not 

146 


THE  CHILDREN  ARE  CARRIED  OFF 

a  sound  is  to  be  heard,  save  when  they  give  vent 
to  a  wonderful  imitation  of  the  lonely  call  of  the 
coyote.  The  cry  is  answered  by  other  braves ;  and 
some  of  them  do  it  even  better  than  the  coyotes, 
who  are  not  very  good  at  it.  So  the  chill  hours 
wear  on,  and  the  long  suspense  is  horribly  trying 
to  the  paleface  who  has  to  live  through  it  for  the 
first  time;  but  to  the  trained  hand  those  ghastly 
calls  and  still  ghastlier  silences  are  but  an  intima- 
tion of  how  the  night  is  marching. 

That  this  was  the  usual  procedure  was  so  well- 
known  to  Hook  that  in  disregarding  it  he  cannot 
be  excused  on  the  plea  of  ignorance. 

The  Piccaninnies,  on  their  part,  trusted  implic- 
itly to  his  honour,  and  their  whole  action  of  the 
night  stands  out  in  marked  contrast  to  his.  They 
left  nothing  undone  that  was  consistent  with  the 
reputation  of  their  tribe.  With  that  alertness  of 
the  senses  which  is  at  once  the  marvel  and  despair 
of  civilised  peoples,  they  knew  that  the  pirates 
were  on  the  island  from  the  moment  one  of  them 
trod  on  a  dry  stick;  and  in  an  incredibly  short 
space  of  time  the  coyote  cries  began.  Every  foot 
of  ground  between  the  spot  where  Hook  had 
landed  his  forces  and  the  home  under  the  trees 
was  stealthily  examined  by  braves  wearing  their 
moccasins  with  the  heels  in  front.  They  found 
only  one  hillock  with  a  stream  at  its  base,  so  that 
Hook  had  no  choice;  here  he  must  establish  him- 

H7 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

self  and  wait  for  just  before  the  dawn.  Every- 
thing being  thus  mapped  out  with  almost  diaboli- 
cal cunning,  the  main  body  of  the  redskins  folded 
their  blankets  around  them,  and  in  the  phlegmatic 
manner  that  is  to  them  the  pearl  of  manhood 
squatted  above  the  children's  home,  awaiting  the 
cold  moment  when  they  should  deal  pale  death. 

Here  dreaming,  though  wide-awake,  of  the  ex- 
quisite tortures  to  which  they  were  to  put  him  at 
break  of  day,  those  confiding  savages  were  found 
by  the  treacherous  Hook.  From  the  accounts 
afterwards  supplied  by  such  of  the  scouts  as 
escaped  the  carnage,  he  does  not  seem  even  to 
have  paused  at  the  rising  ground,  though  it  is 
certain  that  in  the  grey  light  he  must  have  seen 
it:  no  thought  of  waiting  to  be  attacked  appears 
from  first  to  last  to  have  visited  his  subtle  mind; 
he  would  not  even  hold  off  till  the  night  was 
nearly  spent;  on  he  pounded  with  no  policy  but 
to  fall  to.  What  could  the  bewildered  scouts  do, 
masters  as  they  were  of  every  war-like  artifice  save 
this  one,  but  trot  helplessly  after  him,  exposing 
themselves  fatally  to  view,  the  while  they  gave 
pathetic  utterance  to  the  coyote  cry. 

Around  the  brave  Tiger  Lily  were  a  dozen  of 
her  stoutest  warriors,  and  they  suddenly  saw  the 
perfidious  pirates  bearing  down  upon  them.  Fell 
from  their  eyes  then  the  film  through  which  they 
had  looked  at  victory.  No  more  would  they  torture 

148 


THE  CHILDREN  ARE  CARRIED  OFF 

at  the  stake.  For  them  the  happy  hunting-grounds 
now.  They  knew  it;  but  as  their  fathers'  sons 
they  acquitted  themselves.  Even  then  they  had 
time  to  gather  in  a  phalanx  that  would  have  been 
hard  to  break  had  they  risen  quickly,  but  this  they 
were  forbidden  to  do  by  the  traditions  of  their 
race.  It  is  written  that  the  noble  savage  must 
never  express  surprise  in  the  presence  of  the 
white.  Thus  terrible  as  the  sudden  appearance  of 
the  pirates  must  have  been  to  them,  they  remained 
stationary  for  a  moment,  not  a  muscle  moving;  as 
if  the  foe  had  come  by  invitation.  Then,  indeed, 
the  tradition  gallantly  upheld,  they  seized  their 
weapons,  and  the  air  was  torn  with  the  war-cry; 
but  it  was  now  too  late. 

It  is  no  part  of  ours  to  describe  what  was  a 
massacre  rather  than  a  fight.  Thus  perished  many 
of  the  flower  of  the  Piccaninny  tribe.  Not  all 
unavenged  did  they  die,  for  with  Lean  Wolf  fell 
Alf  Mason,  to  disturb  the  Spanish  Main  no  more, 
and  among  others  who  bit  the  dust  were  Geo. 
Scourie,  Chas.  Turley,  and  the  Alsatian  Foggerty. 
Turley  fell  to  the  tomahawk  of  the  terrible  Pan- 
ther, who  ultimately  cut  a  way  through  the  pirates 
with  Tiger  Lily  and  a  small  remnant  of  the  tribe. 

To  what  extent  Hook  is  to  blame  for  his  tactics 
on  this  occasion  is  for  the  historian  to  decide. 
Had  he  waited  on  the  rising  ground  till  the  proper 
hour  he  and  his  men  would  probably  have  been 

149 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

butchered;  and  in  judging  him  it  is  only  fair  to 
take  this  into  account.  What  he  should  perhaps 
have  done  was  to  acquaint  his  opponents  that  he 
proposed  to  follow  a  new  method.  On  the  other 
hand,  this,  as  destroying  the  element  of  surprise, 
would  have  made  his  strategy  of  no  avail,  so  that 
the  whole  question  is  beset  with  difficulties.  One 
cannot  at  least  withhold  a  reluctant  admiration 
for  the  wit  that  had  conceived  so  bold  a  scheme, 
and  the  fell  genius  with  which  it  was  carried  out. 

What  were  his  own  feelings  about  himself  at 
that  triumphant  moment*?  Fain  would  his  dogs 
have  known,  as  breathing  heavily  and  wiping 
their  cutlasses,  they  gathered  at  a  discreet  distance 
from  his  hook,  and  squinted  through  their  ferret 
eyes  at  this  extraordinary  man.  Elation  must 
have  been  in  his  heart,  but  his  face  did  not  reflect 
it :  ever  a  dark  and  solitary  enigma,  he  stood  aloof 
from  his  followers  in  spirit  as  in  substance. 

The  night's  work  was  not  yet  over,  for  it  was 
not  the  redskins  he  had  come  out  to  destroy ;  they 
were  but  the  bees  to  be  smoked,  so  that  he  should 
get  at  the  honey.  It  was  Pan  he  wanted,  Pan  and 
Wendy  and  their  band,  but  chiefly  Pan. 

Peter  was  such  a  small  boy  that  one  tends  to 
wonder  at  the  man's  hatred  of  him.  True  he  had 
flung  Hook's  arm  to  the  crocodile,  but  even  this 
and  the  increased  insecurity  of  life  to  which  it  led, 
owing  to  the  crocodile's  pertinacity,  hardly  ac- 

150 


THE  CHILDREN  ARE  CARRIED  OFF 

count  for  a  vindictiveness  so  relentless  and  malig- 
nant. The  truth  is  that  there  was  a  something 
about  Peter  which  goaded  the  pirate  captain  to 
frenzy.  It  was  not  his  courage,  it  was  not  his 
engaging  appearance,  it  was  not — .  There  is  no 
beating  about  the  bush,  for  we  know  quite  well 
what  it  was,  and  have  got  to  tell.  It  was  Peter's 
cockiness. 

This  had  got  on  Hook's  nerves;  it  made  his  iron 
claw  twitch,  and  at  night  it  disturbed  him  like  an 
insect.  While  Peter  lived,  the  tortured  man  felt 
that  he  was  a  lion  in  a  cage  into  which  a  sparrow 
had  come. 

The  question  now  was  how  to  get  down  the 
trees,  or  how  to  get  his  dogs  down4?  He  ran  his 
greedy  eyes  over  them,  searching  for  the  thinnest 
ones.  They  wriggled  uncomfortably,  for  they 
knew  he  would  not  scruple  to  ram  them  down  with 
poles. 

In  the  meantime,  what  of  the  boys?  We  have 
seen  them  at  the  first  clang  of  weapons,  turned  as 
it  were  into  stone  figures,  open-mouthed,  all  ap- 
pealing with  outstretched  arms  to  Peter;  and  we 
return  to  them  as  their  mouths  close,  and  their  arms 
fall  to  their  sides.  The  pandemonium  above  has 
ceased  almost  as  suddenly  as  it  arose,  passed  like  a 
fierce  gust  of  wind;  but  they  know  that  in  the 
passing  it  has  determined  their  fate. 

Which  side  had  won*? 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

The  pirates,  listening  avidly  at  the  mouths  of 
the  trees,  heard  the  question  put  by  every  boy,  and 
alas,  they  also  heard  Peter's  answer. 

"If  the  redskins  have  won,"  he  said,  "they  will 
beat  the  tom-tom;  it  is  always  their  sign  of  vic- 
tory." 

Now  Smee  had  found  the  tom-tom,  and  was  at 
that  moment  sitting  on  it.  "You  will  never  hear 
the  tom-tom  again,"  he  muttered,  but  inaudibly  of 
course,  for  strict  silence  had  been  enjoined.  To 
his  amazement  Hook  signed  to  him  to  beat  the 
tom-tom,  and  slowly  there  came  to  Smee  an  under- 
standing of  the  dreadful  wickedness  of  the  order. 
Never,  probably,  had  this  simple  man  admired 
Hook  so  much. 

Twice  Smee  beat  upon  the  instrument,  and  then 
stopped  to  listen  gleefully. 

"The  tom-tom,"  the  miscreants  heard  Peter  cry; 
"an  Indian  victory!" 

The  doomed  children  answered  with  a  cheer  that 
was  music  to  the  black  hearts  above,  and  almost 
immediately  they  repeated  their  good-byes  to 
Peter.  This  puzzled  the  pirates,  but  all  their  other 
feelings  were  swallowed  by  a  base  delight  that  the 
enemy  were  about  to  come  up  the  trees.  They 
smirked  at  each  other  and  rubbed  their  hands.  Rap- 
idly and  silently  Hook  gave  his  orders :  one  man  to 
each  tree,  and  the  others  to  arrange  themselves  in 
a  line  two  yards  apart. 

152 


CHAPTER  XIII 

DO  YOU  BELIEVE  IN  FAIRIES? 

THE  more  quickly  this  horror  is  disposed  of  the 
better.  The  first  to  emerge  from  his  tree  was 
Curly.  He  rose  out  of  it  into  the  arms  of  Cecco, 
who  flung  him  to  Smee,  who  flung  him  to  Starkey, 
who  flung  him  to  Bill  Jukes,  who  flung  him  to 
Noodler,  and  so  he  was  tossed  from  one  to  another 
till  he  fell  at  the  feet  of  the  black  pirate.  All  the 
boys  were  plucked  from  their  trees  in  this  ruthless 
manner;  and  several  of  them  were  in  the  air  at  a 
time,  like  bales  of  goods  flung  from  hand  to  hand. 

A  different  treatment  was  accorded  to  Wendy 
who  came  last.  With  ironical  politeness  Hook 
raised  his  hat  to  her,  and,  offering  her  his  arm, 
escorted  her  to  the  spot  where  the  others  were  being 
gagged.  He  did  it  with  such  an  air,  he  was  so 
frightfully  distingue,  that  she  was  too  fascinated 
to  cry  out.  She  was  only  a  little  girl. 

Perhaps  it  is  tell-tale  to  divulge  that  for  a 
moment  Hook  entranced  her,  and  we  tell  on  her 
only  because  her  slip  led  to  strange  results.  Had 

153 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

she  haughtily  unhanded  him  (and  we  should  have 
loved  to  write  it  of  her),  she  would  have  been 
hurled  through  the  air  like  the  others,  and  then 
Hook  would  probably  not  have  been  present  at 
the  tying  of  the  children;  and  had  he  not  been 
at  the  tying  he  would  not  have  discovered 
Slightly's  secret,  and  without  the  secret  he  could 
not  presently  have  made  his  foul  attempt  on 
Peter's  life. 

They  were  tied  to  prevent  their  flying  away, 
doubled  up  with  their  knees  close  to  their  ears; 
and  for  this  job  the  black  pirate  had  cut  a  rope  into 
nine  equal  pieces.  All  went  well  with  the  trussing 
until  Slightly's  turn  came,  when  he  was  found  to 
be  like  those  irritating  parcels  that  use  up  all  the 
string  in  going  round  and  leave  no  tags  with  which 
to  tie  a  knot.  The  pirates  kicked  him  in  their  rage, 
just  as  you  kick  the  parcel  (though  in  fairness  you 
should  kick  the  string) ;  and  strange  to  say  it  was 
Hook  who  told  them  to  belay  their  violence.  His 
lip  was  curled  with  malicious  triumph.  While  his 
dogs  were  merely  sweating  because  every  time  they 
tried  to  pack  the  unhappy  lad  tight  in  one  part  he 
bulged  out  in  another,  Hook's  master  mind  had 
gone  far  beneath  Slightly's  surface,  probing  not 
for  effects  but  for  causes ;  and  his  exultation  showed 
that  he  had  found  them.  Slightly,  white  to  the 
gills,  knew  that  Hook  had  surprised  his  secret, 
which  was  this,  that  no  boy  so  blown  out  could  use 

154 


DO  YOU  BELIEVE  IN  FAIRIES? 

a  tree  wherein  an  average  man  need  stick.  Poor 
Slightly,  most  wretched  of  all  the  children  now, 
for  he  was  in  a  panic  about  Peter,  bitterly  re- 
gretted what  he  had  done.  Madly  addicted  to  the 
drinking  of  water  when  he  was  hot,  he  had  swelled 
in  consequence  to  his  present  girth,  and  instead  of 
reducing  himself  to  fit  his  tree  he  had,  unknown  to 
the  others,  whittled  his  tree  to  make  it  fit  him. 

Sufficient  of  this  Hook  guessed  to  persuade  him 
that  Peter  at  last  lay  at  his  mercy,  but  no  word  of 
the  dark  design  that  now  formed  in  the  subter- 
ranean caverns  of  his  mind  crossed  his  lips;  he 
merely  signed  that  the  captives  were  to  be  con- 
veyed to  the  ship,  and  that  he  would  be  alone. 

How  to  convey  them4?  Hunched  up  in  their 
ropes  they  might  indeed  be  rolled  down  hill  like 
barrels,  but  most  of  the  way  lay  through  a  morass. 
Again  Hook's  genius  surmounted  difficulties.  He 
indicated  that  the  little  house  must  be  used  as  a 
conveyance.  The  children  were  flung  into  it,  four 
stout  pirates  raised  it  on  their  shoulders,  the  others 
fell  in  behind,  and  singing  the  hateful  pirate 
chorus  the  strange  procession  set  off  through  the 
wood.  I  don't  know  whether  any  of  the  children 
were  crying ;  if  so,  the  singing  drowned  the  sound ; 
but  as  the  little  house  disappeared  in  the  forest,  a 
brave  though  tiny  jet  of  smoke  issued  from  its 
chimney  as  if  defying  Hook. 

Hook  saw  it,  and  it  did  Peter  a  bad  service.    It 

155 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

dried  up  any  trickle  of  pity  for  him  that  may  have 
remained  in  the  pirate's  infuriated  breast. 

The  first  thing  he  did  on  finding  himself  alone 
in  the  fast  falling  night  was  to  tiptoe  to  Slightly's 
tree,  and  make  sure  that  it  provided  him  with  a 
passage.  Then  for  long  he  remained  brooding; 
his  hat  of  ill  omen  on  the  sward,  so  that  a  gentle 
breeze  which  had  arisen  might  play  refreshingly 
through  his  hair.  Dark  as  were  his  thoughts  his 
blue  eyes  were  as  soft  as  the  periwinkle.  Intently 
he  listened  for  any  sound  from  the  nether  world, 
but  all  was  as  silent  below  as  above;  the  house 
under  the  ground  seemed  to  be  but  one  more  empty 
tenement  in  the  void.  Was  that  boy  asleep,  or  did 
he  stand  waiting  at  the  foot  of  Slightly's  tree,  with 
his  dagger  in  his  hand*? 

There  was  no  way  of  knowing,  save  by  going 
down.  Hook  let  his  cloak  slip  softly  to  the 
ground,  and  then  biting  his  lips  till  a  lewd  blood 
stood  on  them,  he  stepped  into  the  tree.  He  was 
a  brave  man,  but  for  a  moment  he  had  to  stop 
there  and  wipe  his  brow,  which  was  dripping  like 
a  candle.  Then  silently  he  let  himself  go  into  the 
unknown. 

He  arrived  unmolested  at  the  foot  of  the  shaft, 
and  stood  still  again,  biting  at  his  breath,  which 
had  almost  left  him.  As  his  eyes  became  accus- 
tomed to  the  dim  light  various  objects  in  the  home 
under  the  trees  took  shape;  but  the  only  one  on 

156 


DO  YOU  BELIEVE  IN  FAIRIES? 

which  his  greedy  gaze  rested,  long  sought  for  and 
found  at  last,  was  the  great  bed.  On  the  bed  lay 
Peter  fast  asleep. 

Unaware  of  the  tragedy  being  enacted  above, 
Peter  had  continued,  for  a  little  time  after  the  chil- 
dren left,  to  play  gaily  on  his  pipes:  no  doubt 
rather  a  forlorn  attempt  to  prove  to  himself  that 
he  did  not  care.  Then  he  decided  not  to  take  his 
medicine,  so  as  to  grieve  Wendy.  Then  he  lay 
down  on  the  bed  outside  the  coverlet,  to  vex  her 
still  more;  for  she  had  always  tucked  them  inside 
it,  because  you  never  know  that  you  may  not  grow 
chilly  at  the  turn  of  the  night.  Then  he  nearly 
cried;  but  it  struck  him  how  indignant  she  would 
be  if  he  laughed  instead ;  so  he  laughed  a  haughty 
laugh  and  fell  asleep  in  the  middle  of  it. 

Sometimes,  though  not  often,  he  had  dreams, 
and  they  were  more  painful  than  the  dreams  of 
other  boys.  For  hours  he  could  not  be  separated 
from  these  dreams,  though  he  wailed  piteously  in 
them.  They  had  to  do,  I  think,  with  the  riddle  of 
his  existence.  At  such  times  it  had  been  Wendy's 
custom  to  take  him  out  of  bed  and  sit  with  him  on 
her  lap,  soothing  him  in  dear  ways  of  her  own  in- 
vention, and  when  he  grew  calmer  to  put  him  back 
to  bed  before  he  quite  woke  up,  so  that  he  should 
not  know  of  the  indignity  to  which  she  had  sub- 
jected him.  But  on  this  occasion  he  had  fallen  at 
once  into  a  dreamless  sleep.  One  arm  dropped 

157 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

over  the  edge  of  the  bed,  one  leg  was  arched,  and 
the  unfinished  part  of  his  laugh  was  stranded  on 
his  mouth,  which  was  open,  showing  the  little 
pearls. 

Thus  defenceless  Hook  found  him.  He  stood 
silent  at  the  foot  of  the  tree  looking  across  the 
chamber  at  his  enemy.  Did  no  feeling  of  compas- 
sion stir  his  sombre  breast?  The  man  was  not 
wholly  evil;  he  loved  flowers  (I  have  been  told) 
and  sweet  music  (he  was  himself  no  mean  per- 
former on  the  harpsichord)  ;  and,  let  it  be  frankly 
admitted,  the  idyllic  nature  of  the  scene  shook  him 
profoundly.  Mastered  by  his  better  self  he  would 
have  returned  reluctantly  up  the  tree,  but  for  one 
thing. 

What  stayed  him  was  Peter's  impertinent  ap- 
pearance as  he  slept.  The  open  mouth,  the  droop- 
ing arm,  the  arched  knee:  they  were  such  a  per- 
sonification of  cockiness  as,  taken  together,  will 
never  again  one  may  hope  be  presented  to  eyes  so 
sensitive  to  their  offensiveness.  They  steeled 
Hook's  heart.  If  his  rage  had  broken  him  into  a 
hundred  pieces  every  one  of  them  would  have  dis- 
regarded the  incident,  and  leapt  at  the  sleeper. 

Though  a  light  from  the  one  lamp  shone 
dimly  on  the  bed  Hook  stood  in  darkness  himself, 
and  at  the  first  stealthy  step  forward  he  discov- 
ered an  obstacle,  the  door  of  Slightly's  tree.  It 
did  not  entirely  fill  the  aperture,  and  he  had  been 

158 


DO  YOU  BELIEVE  IN  FAIRIES? 

looking  over  it.  Feeling  for  the  catch,  he  found 
to  his  fury  that  it  was  low  down,  beyond  his  reach. 
To  his  disordered  brain  it  seemed  then  that  the 
irritating  quality  in  Peter's  face  and  figure  visibly 
increased,  and  he  rattled  the  door  and  flung  him- 
self against  it.  Was  his  enemy  to  escape  him 
after  all? 

But  what  was  that?  The  red  in  his  eye  had 
caught  sight  of  Peter's  medicine  standing  on  a 
ledge  within  easy  reach.  He  fathomed  what  it 
was  straightway,  and  immediately  he  knew  that 
the  sleeper  was  in  his  power. 

Lest  he  should  be  taken  alive,  Hook  always  car- 
ried about  his  person  a  dreadful  drug,  blended  by 
himself  of  all  the  death-dealing  rings  that  had 
come  into  his  possession.  These  he  had  boiled 
down  into  a  yellow  liquid  quite  unknown  to  sci- 
ence, which  was  probably  the  most  virulent  poison 
in  existence. 

Five  drops  of  this  he  now  added  to  Peter's  cup. 
His  hand  shook,  but  it  was  in  exultation  rather 
than  in  shame.  As  he  did  it  he  avoided  glancing 
at  the  sleeper,  but  not  lest  pity  should  unnerve 
him;  merely  to  avoid  spilling.  Then  one  long 
gloating  look  he  cast  upon  his  victim,  and  turning, 
wormed  his  way  with  difficulty  up  the  tree.  As  he 
emerged  at  the  top  he  looked  the  very  spirit  of  evil 
breaking  from  its  hole.  Donning  his  hat  at  its 
most  rakish  angle,  he  wound  his  cloak  around  him, 

159 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

holding  one  end  in  front  as  if  to  conceal  his  person 
from  the  night,  of  which  it  was  the  blackest  part, 
and  muttering  strangely  to  himself  stole  away 
through  the  trees. 

Peter  slept  on.  The  light  guttered  and  went 
out,  leaving  the  tenement  in  darkness ;  but  still  he 
slept.  It  must  have  been  not  less  than  ten  o'clock 
by  the  crocodile,  when  he  suddenly  sat  up  in  his 
bed,  wakened  by  he  knew  not  what.  It  was  a  soft 
cautious  tapping  on  the  door  of  his  tree. 

Soft  and  cautious,  but  in  that  stillness  it  was 
sinister.  Peter  felt  for  his  dagger  till  his  hand 
gripped  it.  Then  he  spoke. 

"Who  is  that?" 

For  long  there  was  no  answer:  then  again  the 
knock. 

"Who  are  you?" 

No  answer. 

He  was  thrilled,  and  he  loved  being  thrilled.  In 
two  strides  he  reached  his  door.  Unlike  Slightly's 
door  it  filled  the  aperture,  so  that  he  could  not  see 
beyond  it,  nor  could  the  one  knocking  see  him. 

"I  won't  open  unless  you  speak,"  Peter  cried. 

Then  at  last  the  visitor  spoke,  in  a  lovely  bell- 
like  voice. 

"Let  me  in,  Peter." 

It  was  Tink,  and  quickly  he  unbarred  to  her. 
She  flew  in  excitedly,  her  face  flushed  and  her  dress 
stained  with  mud. 

160 


DO  YOU  BELIEVE  IN  FAIRIES? 

"What  is  it?" 

"Oh,  you  could  never  guess!"  she  cried,  and 
offered  him  three  guesses.  "Out  with  it!"  he 
shouted,  and  in  one  ungrammatical  sentence,  as 
long  as  the  ribbons  conjurers  pull  from  their 
mouths,  she  told  of  the  capture  of  Wendy  and  the 
boys. 

Peter's  heart  bobbed  up  and  down  as  he  listened. 
Wendy  bound,  and  on  the  pirate  ship;  she  who 
loved  everything  to  be  just  so! 

"I'll  rescue  her!"  he  cried,  leaping  at  his 
weapons.  As  he  leapt  he  thought  of  something  he 
could  do  to  please  her.  He  could  take  his  medicine. 

His  hand  closed  on  the  fatal  draught. 

"No!"  shrieked  Tinker  Bell,  who  had  heard 
Hook  muttering  about  his  deed  as  he  sped  through 
the  forest. 

"Why  not?" 

"It  is  poisoned." 

"Poisoned!     Who  could  have  poisoned  it?" 

"Hook." 

"Don't  be  silly.  How  could  Hook  have  got 
down  here?" 

Alas,  Tinker  Bell  could  not  explain  this,  for 
even  she  did  not  know  the  dark  secret  of  Slightly's 
tree.  Nevertheless  Hook's  words  had  left  no 
room  for  doubt.  The  cup  was  poisoned. 

"Besides,"  said  Peter,  quite  believing  himself, 
"I  never  fell  asleep." 

161 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

He  raised  the  cup.  No  time  for  words  now; 
time  for  deeds,  and  with  one  of  her  lightning 
movements  Tink  got  between  his  lips  and  the 
draught,  and  drained  it  to  the  dregs. 

"Why,  Tink,  how  dare  you  drink  my  medicine  *?" 

But  she  did  not  answer.  Already  she  was  reel- 
ing in  the  air. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you*?"  cried  Peter, 
suddenly  afraid. 

"It  was  poisoned,  Peter,"  she  told  him  softly; 
"and  now  I  am  going  to  be  dead." 

"O  Tink,  did  you  drink  it  to  save  me*?" 

"Yes." 

"But  why,  Tink?" 

Her  wings  would  scarcely  carry  her  now,  but  in 
reply  she  alighted  on  his  shoulder  and  gave  his 
nose  a  loving  bite.  She  whispered  in  his  ear  "you 
silly  ass,"  and  then,  tottering  to  her  chamber,  lay 
down  on  the  bed. 

His  head  almost  filled  the  fourth  wall  of  her 
little  room  as  he  knelt  near  her  in  distress.  Every 
moment  her  light  was  growing  fainter;  and  he 
knew  that  if  it  went  out  she  would  be  no  more. 
She  liked  his  tears  so  much  that  she  put  out  her 
beautiful  finger  and  let  them  run  over  it. 

Her  voice  was  so  low  that  at  first  he  could  not 
make  out  what  she  said.  Then  he  made  it  out. 
She  was  saying  that  she  thought  she  could  get  well 
again  if  children  believed  in  fairies. 

162 


DO  YOU  BELIEVE  IN  FAIRIES'? 

Peter  flung  out  his  arms.  There  were  no  chil- 
dren there,  and  it  was  night  time;  but  he  ad- 
dressed all  who  might  be  dreaming  of  the  Never- 
land,  and  who  were  therefore  nearer  to  him  than 
you  think:  boys  and  girls  in  their  nighties,  and 
naked  papooses  in  their  baskets  hung  from  trees. 

"Do  you  believe*?"  he  cried. 

Tink  sat  up  in  bed  almost  briskly  to  listen  to 
her  fate. 

She  fancied  she  heard  answers  in  the  affirma- 
tive, and  then  again  she  wasn't  sure. 

"What  do  you  think  ?"  she  asked  Peter. 

"If  you  believe,"  he  shouted  to  them,  "clap 
your  hands;  don't  let  Tink  die." 

Many  clapped. 

Some  didn't. 

A  few  little  beasts  hissed. 

The  clapping  stopped  suddenly;  as  if  countless 
mothers  had  rushed  to  their  nurseries  to  see  what 
on  earth  was  happening;  but  already  Tink  was 
saved.  First  her  voice  grew  strong,  then  she 
popped  out  of  bed,  then  she  was  flashing  through 
the  room  more  merry  and  impudent  than  ever. 
She  never  thought  of  thanking  those  who  believed, 
but  she  would  have  liked  to  get  at  the  ones  who 
had  hissed. 

"And  now  to  rescue  Wendy!" 

The  moon  was  riding  in  a  cloudy  heaven  when 
Peter  rose  from  his  tree,  begirt  with  weapons  and 

163 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

wearing  little  else,  to  set  out  upon  his  perilous 
quest.  It  was  not  such  a  night  as  he  would  have 
chosen.  He  had  hoped  to  fly,  keeping  not  far  from 
the  ground  so  that  nothing  unwonted  should 
escape  his  eyes;  but  in  that  fitful  light  to  have 
flown  low  would  have  meant  trailing  his  shadow 
through  the  trees,  thus  disturbing  the  birds  and 
acquainting  a  watchful  foe  that  he  was  astir. 

He  regretted  now  that  he  had  given  the  birds 
of  the  island  such  strange  names  that  they  are  very 
wild  and  difficult  of  approach. 

There  was  no  other  course  but  to  press  forward 
in  redskin  fashion,  at  which  happily  he  was  an 
adept.  But  in  what  direction,  for  he  could  not  be 
sure  that  the  children  had  been  taken  to  the  ship*? 
A  slight  fall  of  snow  had  obliterated  all  foot- 
marks; and  a  deathly  silence  pervaded  the  island, 
as  if  for  a  space  Nature  stood  still  in  horror  of  the 
recent  carnage.  He  had  taught  the  children  some- 
thing of  the  forest  lore  that  he  had  himself  learned 
from  Tiger  Lily  and  Tinker  Bell,  and  knew  that 
in  their  dire  hour  they  were  not  likely  to  forget  it. 
Slightly,  if  he  had  an  opportunity,  would  blaze 
the  trees,  for  instance,  Curly  would  drop  seeds, 
and  Wendy  would  leave  her  handkerchief  at  some 
important  place.  But  morning  was  needed  to 
search  for  such  guidance,  and  he  could  not  wait. 
The  upper  world  had  called  him,  but  would  give 
no  help. 

164 


DO  YOU  BELIEVE  IN  FAIRIES? 

The  crocodile  passed  him,  but  not  another  living 
thing,  not  a  sound,  not  a  movement;  and  yet  he 
knew  well  that  sudden  death  might  be  at  the  next 
tree,  or  stalking  him  from  behind. 

He  swore  this  terrible  oath:  "Hook  or  me  this 
time." 

Now  he  crawled  forward  like  a  snake;  and 
again,  erect,  he  darted  across  a  space  on  which  the 
moonlight  played,  one  finger  on  his  lip  and  his 
dagger  at  the  ready.  He  was  frightfully  happy. 


165 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  PIRATE  SHIP 

ONE  green  light  squinting  over  Kidd's  Creek, 
which  is  near  the  mouth  of  the  pirate  river,  marked 
where  the  brig,  the  Jolly  Roger,  lay,  low  in  the 
water;  a  rakish-looking  craft  foul  to  the  hull, 
every  beam  in  her  detestable  like  ground  strewn 
with  mangled  feathers.  She  was  the  cannibal  of 
the  seas,  and  scarce  needed  that  watchful  eye,  for 
she  floated  immune  in  the  horror  of  her  name. 

She  was  wrapped  in  the  blanket  of  night, 
through  which  no  sound  from  her  could  have 
reached  the  shore.  There  was  little  sound,  and 
none  agreeable  save  the  whir  of  the  ship's  sewing 
machine  at  which  Smee  sat,  ever  industrious  and 
obliging,  the  essence  of  the  commonplace,  pathetic 
Smee.  I  know  not  why  he  was  so  infinitely  pa- 
thetic, unless  it  were  because  he  was  so  pathetically 
unaware  of  it;  but  even  strong  men  had  to  turn 
hastily  from  looking  at  him,  and  more  than  once 
on  summer  evenings  he  had  touched  the  fount  of 
Hook's  tears  and  made  it  flow.  Of  this,  as  of  al- 
most everything  else,  Smee  was  quite  unconscious. 

166 


THE  PIRATE  SHIP 

A  few  of  the  pirates  leant  over  the  bulwarks 
drinking  in  the  miasma  of  the  night;  others 
sprawled  by  barrels  over  games  of  dice  and  cards ; 
and  the  exhausted  four  who  had  carried  the  little 
house  lay  prone  on  the  deck,  where  even  in  their 
sleep  they  rolled  skilfully  to  this  side  or  that  out 
of  Hook's  reach,  lest  he  should  claw  them  me- 
chanically in  passing. 

Hook  trod  the  deck  in  thought.  O  man  un- 
fathomable. It  was  his  hour  of  triumph.  Peter 
had  been  removed  for  ever  from  his  path,  and  all 
the  other  boys  were  on  the  brig,  about  to  walk  the 
plank.  It  was  his  grimmest  deed  since  the  days 
when  he  had  brought  Barbecue  to  heel ;  and  know- 
ing as  we  do  how  vain  a  tabernacle  is  man,  could 
we  be  surprised  had  he  now  paced  the  deck  un- 
steadily, bellied  out  by  the  winds  of  his  success? 

But  there  was  no  elation  in  his  gait,  which  kept 
pace  with  the  action  of  his  sombre  mind.  Hook 
was  profoundly  dejected. 

He  was  often  thus  when  communing  with  him- 
self on  board  ship  in  the  quietude  of  the  night.  It 
was  because  he  was  so  terribly  alone.  This  in- 
scrutable man  never  felt  more  alone  than  when 
surrounded  by  his  dogs.  They  were  socially  so  in- 
ferior to  him. 

Hook  was  not  his  true  name.  To  reveal  who  he 
really  was  would  even  at  this  date  set  the  country 
in  a  blaze ;  but  as  those  who  read  between  the  lines 

167 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

must  already  have  guessed,  he  had  been  at  a  famous 
public  school;  and  its  traditions  still  clung  to  him 
like  garments,  with  which  indeed  they  are  largely 
concerned.  Thus  it  was  offensive  to  him  even  now 
to  board  a  ship  in  the  same  dress  in  which  he 
grappled  her,  and  he  still  adhered  in  his  walk  to 
the  school's  distinguished  slouch.  But  above  all 
he  retained  the  passion  for  good  form. 

Good  form!  However  much  he  may  have  de- 
generated, he  still  knew  that  this  is  all  that  really 
matters. 

From  far  within  him  he  heard  a  creaking  as  of 
rusty  portals,  and  through  them  came  a  stern  tap- 
tap-tap,  like  hammering  in  the  night  when  one 
cannot  sleep.  "Have  you  been  good  form  to- 
day?" was  their  eternal  question. 

"Fame,  fame,  that  glittering  bauble,  it  is 
mine !"  he  cried. 

"Is  it  quite  good  form  to  be  distinguished  at 
anything?"  the  tap- tap  from  his  school  replied. 

"I  am  the  only  man  whom  Barbecue  feared," 
he  urged,  "and  Flint  himself  feared  Barbecue." 

"Barbecue,  Flint — what  house?"  came  the  cut- 
ting retort. 

Most  disquieting  reflection  of  all,  was  it  not  bad 
form  to  think  about  good  form? 

His  vitals  were  tortured  by  this  problem.  It 
was  a  claw  within  him  sharper  than  the  iron  one ; 
and  as  it  tore  him,  the  perspiration  dripped  down 

168 


THE  PIRATE  SHIP 

his  tallow  countenance  and  streaked  his  doublet. 
Ofttimes  he  drew  his  sleeve  across  his  face,  but 
there  was  no  damming  that  trickle. 

Ah,  envy  not  Hook. 

There  came  to  him  a  presentiment  of  his  early 
dissolution.  It  was  as  if  Peter's  terrible  oath  had 
boarded  the  ship.  Hook  felt  a  gloomy  desire  to 
make  his  dying  speech,  lest  presently  there  should 
be  no  time  for  it. 

"Better  for  Hook,"  he  cried,  "if  he  had  had  less 
ambition!"  It  was  in  his  darkest  hours  only  that 
he  referred  to  himself  in  the  third  person. 

"No  little  children  love  me !" 

Strange  that  he  should  think  of  this,  which  had 
never  troubled  him  before;  perhaps  the  sewing 
machine  brought  it  to  his  mind.  For  long  he  mut- 
tered to  himself,  staring  at  Smee,  who  was  hem- 
ming placidly,  under  the  conviction  that  all  chil- 
dren feared  him. 

Feared  him!  Feared  Smee!  There  was  not  a 
child  on  board  the  brig  that  night  who  did  not  al- 
ready love  him.  He  had  said  horrid  things  to 
them  and  hit  them  with  the  palm  of  his  hand,  be- 
cause he  could  not  hit  with  his  fist,  but  they  had 
only  clung  to  him  the  more.  Michael  had  tried  on 
his  spectacles. 

To  tell  poor  Smee  that  they  thought  him  lov- 
able! Hook  itched  to  do  it,  but  it  seemed  too 
brutal.  Instead,  he  revolved  this  mystery  in  his 

169 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

mind:  why  do  they  find  Smee  lovable?  He  pur- 
sued the  problem  like  the  sleuth-hound  that  he 
was.  If  Smee  was  lovable,  what  was  it  that  made 
him  so*?  A  terrible  answer  suddenly  presented  it- 
self—"Good  form?" 

Had  the  bo' sun  good  form  without  knowing  it, 
which  is  the  best  form  of  all  ? 

He  remembered  that  you  have  to  prove  you 
don't  know  you  have  it  before  you  are  eligible  for 
Pop. 

With  a  cry  of  rage  he  raised  his  iron  hand  over 
Smee's  head;  but  he  did  not  tear.  What  arrested 
him  was  this  reflection : 

"To  claw  a  man  because  he  is  good  form,  what 
would  that  be?" 

"Bad  form!" 

The  unhappy  Hook  was  as  impotent  as  he  was 
damp,  and  he  fell  forward  like  a  cut  flower. 

His  dogs  thinking  him  out  of  the  way  for  a 
time,  discipline  instantly  relaxed;  and  they  broke 
into  a  bacchanalian  dance,  which  brought  him 
to  his  feet  at  once,  all  traces  of  human  weakness 
gone,  as  if  a  bucket  of  water  had  passed  over 
him. 

"Quiet,  you  scugs,"  he  cried,  "or  I'll  cast  an- 
chor in  you";  and  at  once  the  din  was  hushed. 
"Are  all  the  children  chained,  so  that  they  cannot 
fly  away?" 

"Ay,  ay." 

170 


THE  PIRATE  SHIP 

"Then  hoist  them  up." 

The  wretched  prisoners  were  dragged  from  the 
hold,  all  except  Wendy,  and  ranged  in  line  in 
front  of  him.  For  a  time  he  seemed  unconscious 
of  their  presence.  He  lolled  at  his  ease,  humming, 
not  unmelodiously,  snatches  of  a  rude  song,  and 
fingering  a  pack  of  cards.  Ever  and  anon  the  light 
from  his  cigar  gave  a  touch  of  colour  to  his  face. 

"Now  then,  bullies,"  he  said  briskly,  "six  of 
you  walk  the  plank  to-night,  but  I  have  room  for 
two  cabin  boys.  Which  of  you  is  it  to  be1?" 

"Don't  irritate  him  unnecessarily,"  had  been 
Wendy's  instructions  in  the  hold;  so  Tootles 
stepped  forward  politely.  Tootles  hated  the  idea 
of  signing  under  such  a  man,  but  an  instinct  told 
him  that  it  would  be  prudent  to  lay  the  respon- 
sibility on  an  absent  person;  and  though  a  some- 
what silly  boy,  he  knew  that  mothers  alone  are 
always  willing  to  be  the  buffer.  All  children  know 
this  about  mothers,  and  despise  them  for  it,  but 
make  constant  use  of  it. 

So  Tootles  explained  prudently,  "You  see,  sir, 
I  don't  think  my  mother  would  like  me  to  be  a 
pirate.  Would  your  mother  like  you  to  be  a  pi- 
rate, Slightly1?" 

He  winked  at  Slightly,  who  said  mournfully, 
"I  don't  think  so,"  as  if  he  wished  things  had  been 
otherwise.  "Would  your  mother  like  you  to  be  a 
pirate,  Twin*?" 

171 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

"I  don't  think  so,"  said  the  first  twin,  as  clever 
as  the  others.  "Nibs,  would " 

"Stow  this  gab,"  roared  Hook,  and  the  spokes- 
men were  dragged  back.  "You,  boy,"  he  said,  ad- 
dressing John,  "you  look  as  if  you  had  a  little 
pluck  in  you.  Didst  never  want  to  be  a  pirate, 
my  hearty?" 

Now  John  had  sometimes  experienced  this 
hankering  at  maths,  prep.;  and  he  was  struck  by 
Hook's  picking  him  out. 

"I  once  thought  of  calling  myself  Red-handed 
Jack,"  he  said  diffidently. 

"And  a  good  name  too.  We'll  call  you  that 
here,  bully,  if  you  join." 

"What  do  you  think,  Michael?"  asked  John. 

"What  would  you  call  me  if  I  join?"  Michael 
demanded. 

"Blackbeard  Joe." 

Michael  was  naturally  impressed.  "What  do 
you  think,  John?"  He  wanted  John  to  decide, 
and  John  wanted  him  to  decide. 

"Shall  we  still  be  respectful  subjects  of  the 
King?"  John  inquired. 

Through  Hook's  teeth  came  the  answer:  "You 
would  have  to  swear,  'Down  with  the  King.' ' 

Perhaps  John  had  not  behaved  very  well  so  far, 
but  he  shone  out  now. 

"Then  I  refuse !"  he  cried,  banging  the  barrel  in 
front  of  Hook. 

172 


THE  PIRATE  SHIP 

"And  I  refuse,"  cried  Michael. 

"Rule  Britannia !"  squeaked  Curly. 

The  infuriated  pirates  buffeted  them  in  the 
mouth;  and  Hook  roared  out,  "That  seals  your 
doom.  Bring  up  their  mother.  Get  the  plank 
ready." 

They  were  only  boys,  and  they  went  white  as 
they  saw  Jukes  and  Cecco  preparing  the  fatal 
plank.  But  they  tried  to  look  brave  when  Wendy 
was  brought  up. 

No  words  of  mine  can  tell  you  how  Wendy  de- 
spised those  pirates.  To  the  boys  there  was  at 
least  some  glamour  in  the  pirate  calling;  but  all 
that  she  saw  was  that  the  ship  had  not  been  tidied 
for  years.  There  was  not  a  porthole  on  the  grimy 
glass  of  which  you  might  not  have  written  with 
your  finger  "Dirty  pig" ;  and  she  had  already  writ- 
ten it  on  several.  But  as  the  boys  gathered  round 
her  she  had  no  thought,  of  course,  save  for  them. 

"So,  my  beauty,"  said  Hook,  as  if  he  spoke  in 
syrup,  "you  are  to  see  your  children  walk  the 
plank."  ' 

Fine  gentleman  though  he  was,  the  intensity  of 
his  communings  had  soiled  his  ruff,  and  suddenly 
he  knew  that  she  was  gazing  at  it.  With  a  hasty 
gesture  he  tried  to  hide  it,  but  he  was  too  late. 

"Are  they  to  die?"  asked  Wendy,  with  a  look 
of  such  frightful  contempt  that  he  nearly  fainted. 

"They  are,"  he  snarled.    "Silence  all,"  he  called 

173 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

gloatingly,  "for  a  mother's  last  words  to  her  chil- 
dren." 

At  this  moment  Wendy  was  grand.  "These 
are  my  last  words,  dear  boys,"  she  said  firmly.  "I 
feel  that  I  have  a  message  to  you  from  your  real 
mothers,  and  it  is  this :  'We  hope  our  sons  will  die 
like  English  gentlemen.' ' 

Even  the  pirates  were  awed,  and  Tootles  cried 
out  hysterically,  "I  am  going  to  do  what  my 
mother  hopes.  What  are  you  to  do,  Nibs?" 

"What  my  mother  hopes.  What  are  you  to  do, 
Twin?" 

"What  my  mother  hopes.  John,  what  are " 

But  Hook  had  found  his  voice  again. 

"Tie  her  up !"  he  shouted. 

It  was  Smee  who  tied  her  to  the  mast.  "See 
here,  honey,"  he  whispered,  "I'll  save  you  if  you 
promise  to  be  my  mother." 

But  not  even  for  Smee  would  she  make  such  a 
promise.  "I  would  almost  rather  have  no  children 
at  all,"  she  said  disdainfully. 

It  is  sad  to  know  that  not  a  boy  was  looking  at 
her  as  Smee  tied  her  to  the  mast;  the  eyes  of  all 
were  on  the  plank:  that  last  little  walk  they  were 
about  to  take.  They  were  no  longer  able  to  hope 
that  they  would  walk  it  manfully,  for  the  capacity 
to  think  had  gone  from  them ;  they  could  stare  and 
shiver  only. 

Hook  smiled  on  them  with  his  teeth  closed,  and 

174 


THE  PIRATE  SHIP 

took  a  step  toward  Wendy.  His  intention  was  to 
turn  her  face  so  that  she  should  see  the  boys  walk- 
ing the  plank  one  by  one.  But  he  never  reached 
her,  he  never  heard  the  cry  of  anguish  he  hoped  to 
wring  from  her.  He  heard  something  else  instead. 

It  was  the  terrible  tick-tick  of  the  crocodile. 

They  all  heard  it — pirates,  boys,  Wendy — and 
immediately  every  head  was  blown  in  one  direc- 
tion ;  not  to  the  water  whence  the  sound  proceeded, 
but  toward  Hook.  All  knew  that  what  was  about 
to  happen  concerned  him  alone,  and  that  from 
being  actors  they  were  suddenly  become  spec- 
tators. 

Very  frightful  was  it  to  see  the  change  that 
came  over  him.  It  was  as  if  he  had  been  clipped 
at  every  joint.  He  fell  in  a  little  heap. 

The  sound  came  steadily  nearer;  and  in  advance 
of  it  came  this  ghastly  thought,  "the  crocodile  is 
about  to  board  the  ship"  ! 

Even  the  iron  claw  hung  inactive;  as  if  know- 
ing that  it  was  no  intrinsic  part  of  what  the 
attacking  force  wanted.  Left  so  fearfully  alone, 
any  other  man  would  have  lain  with  his  eyes  shut 
where  he  fell :  but  the  gigantic  brain  of  Hook  was 
still  working,  and  under  its  guidance  he  crawled 
on  his  knees  along  the  deck  as  far  from  the  sound 
as  he  could  go.  The  pirates  respectfully  cleared 
a  passage  for  him,  and  it  was  only  when  he  brought 
up  against  the  bulwarks  that  he  spoke. 

175 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

"Hide  me !"  he  cried  hoarsely. 

They  gathered  round  him,  all  eyes  averted  from 
the  thing  that  was  coming  aboard.  They  had  no 
thought  of  fighting  it.  It  was  Fate. 

Only  when  Hook  was  hidden  from  them  did 
curiosity  loosen  the  limbs  of  the  boys  so  that  they 
could  rush  to  the  ship's  side  to  see  the  crocodile 
climbing  it.  Then  they  got  the  strangest  surprise 
of  this  Night  of  Nights;  for  it  was  no  crocodile 
that  was  coming  to  their  aid.  It  was  Peter. 

He  signed  to  them  not  to  give  vent  to  any  cry 
of  admiration  that  might  arouse  suspicion.  Then 
he  went  on  ticking. 


176 


CHAPTER  XV 

"HOOK  OR  ME  THIS  TIME" 

ODD  things  happen  to  all  of  us  on  our  way  through 
life  without  our  noticing  for  a  time  that  they  have 
happened.  Thus,  to  take  an  instance,  we  sud- 
denly discover  that  we  have  been  deaf  in  one  ear 
for  we  don't  know  how  long,  but,  say,  half  an 
hour.  Now  such  an  experience  had  come  that 
night  to  Peter.  When  last  we  saw  him  he  was 
stealing  across  the  island  with  one  finger  to  his 
lips  and  his  dagger  at  the  ready.  He  had  seen  the 
crocodile  pass  by  without  noticing  anything  pe- 
culiar about  it,  but  by  and  by  he  remembered  that 
it  had  not  been  ticking.  At  first  he  thought  this 
eerie,  but  soon  he  concluded  rightly  that  the  clock 
had  run  down. 

Without  giving  a  thought  to  what  might  be  the 
feelings  of  a  fellow-creature  thus  abruptly  de- 
prived of  its  closest  companion,  Peter  began  to 
consider  how  he  could  turn  the  catastrophe  to  his 
own  use ;  and  he  decided  to  tick,  so  that  wild  beasts 
should  believe  he  was  the  crocodile  and  let  him 
pass  unmolested.  He  ticked  superbly,  but  with 

177 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

one  unforeseen  result.  The  crocodile  was  among 
those  who  heard  the  sound,  and  it  followed  him, 
though  whether  with  the  purpose  of  regaining 
what  it  had  lost,  or  merely  as  a  friend  under  the 
belief  that  it  was  again  ticking  itself,  will  never 
be  certainly  known,  for,  like  all  slaves  to  a  fixed 
idea,  it  was  a  stupid  beast. 

Peter  reached  the  shore  without  mishap,  and 
went  straight  on,  his  legs  encountering  the  water 
as  if  quite  unaware  that  they  had  entered  a  new 
element.  Thus  many  animals  pass  from  land  to 
water,  but  no  other  human,  of  whom  I  know.  As 
he  swam  he  had  but  one  thought:  "Hook  or  me 
this  time."  He  had  ticked  so  long  that  he  now 
went  on  ticking  without  knowing  that  he  was 
doing  it.  Had  he  known  he  would  have  stopped, 
for  to  board  the  brig  by  the  help  of  the  tick,  though 
an  ingenious  idea,  had  not  occurred  to  him. 

On  the  contrary,  he  thought  he  had  scaled  her 
side  as  noiseless  as  a  mouse ;  and  he  was  amazed  to 
see  the  pirates  cowering  from  him,  with  Hook  in 
their  midst  as  abject  as  if  he  had  heard  the  croco- 
dile. 

The  crocodile !  No  sooner  did  Peter  remember 
it  than  he  heard  the  ticking.  At  first  he  thought 
the  sound  did  come  from  the  crocodile,  and  he 
looked  behind  him  swiftly.  Then  he  realized  that 
he  was  doing  it  himself,  and  in  a  flash  he  under- 
stood the  situation.  "How  clever  of  me!"  he 

178 


"HOOK  OR  ME  THIS  TIME" 

thought  at  once,  and  signed  to  the  boys  not  to 
burst  into  applause. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  Ed  Teynte  the  quar- 
termaster emerged  from  the  forecastle  and  came 
along  the  deck.  Now,  reader,  time  what  hap- 
pened by  your  watch.  Peter  struck  true  and  deep. 
John  clapped  his  hands  on  the  ill-fated  pirate's 
mouth  to  stifle  the  dying  groan.  He  fell  forward. 
Four  boys  caught  him  to  prevent  the  thud.  Peter 
gave  the  signal,  and  the  carrion  was  cast  over- 
board. There  was  a  splash,  and  then  silence. 
How  long  has  it  taken? 

"One !"    (Slightly  had  begun  to  count.) 

None  too  soon,  Peter,  every  inch  of  him  on  tip- 
toe, vanished  into  the  cabin;  for  more  than  one 
pirate  was  screwing  up  his  courage  to  look  round. 
They  could  hear  each  other's  distressed  breathing 
now,  which  showed  them  that  the  more  terrible 
sound  had  passed. 

"It's  gone,  captain,"  Smee  said,  wiping  his  spec- 
tacles. "All's  still  again." 

Slowly  Hook  let  his  head  emerge  from  his  ruff, 
and  listened  so  intently  that  he  could  have  caught 
the  echo  of  the  tick.  There  was  not  a  sound,  and 
he  drew  himself  up  firmly  to  his  full  height. 

"Then  here's  to  Johnny  Plank!"  he  cried 
brazenly,  hating  the  boys  more  than  ever  because 
they  had  seen  him  unbend.  He  broke  into  the 
villainous  ditty : 

179 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

"Yo  ho,  yo  ho,  the  frisky  plank, 

You  walks  along  it  so, 
Till  it  goes  down  and  you  goes  down 
To  Davy  Jones  below !" 

To  terrorise  the  prisoners  the  more,  though  with 
a  certain  loss  of  dignity,  he  danced  along  an  imag- 
inary plank,  grimacing  at  them  as  he  sang;  and 
when  he  finished  he  cried,  "Do  you  want  a  touch 
of  the  cat  before  you  walk  the  plank?" 

At  that  they  fell  on  their  knees.  "No,  no!" 
they  cried  so  piteously  that  every  pirate  smiled. 

"Fetch  the  cat,  Jukes,"  said  Hook,  "it's  in  the 
cabin." 

The  cabin !  Peter  was  in  the  cabin !  The  chil- 
dren gazed  at  each  other. 

"Ay,  ay,"  said  Jukes  blithely,  and  he  strode  into 
the  cabin.  They  followed  him  with  their  eyes; 
they  scarce  knew  that  Hook  had  resumed  his  song, 
his  dogs  joining  in  with  him: 

"  Yo  ho,  yo  ho,  the  scratching  cat, 

Its  tails  are  nine,  you  know, 
And  when  they're  writ  upon  your  back — " 

What  was  the  last  line  will  never  be  known,  for 
of  a  sudden  the  song  was  stayed  by  a  dreadful 
screech  from  the  cabin.  It  wailed  through  the 
ship,  and  died  away.  Then  was  heard  a  crowing 
sound  which  was  well  understood  by  the  boys,  but 

180 


"HOOK  OR  ME  THIS  TIME" 

to  the  pirates  was  almost  more  eerie  than  the 
screech. 

"What  was  that?"  cried  Hook. 

"Two,"  said  Slightly  solemnly. 

The  Italian  Cecco  hesitated  for  a  moment  and 
then  swung  into  the  cabin.  He  tottered  out,  hag- 
gard. 

"What's  the  matter  with  Bill  Jukes,  you  dog?" 
hissed  Hook,  towering  over  him. 

"The  matter  wi'  him  is  he's  dead,  stabbed,"  re- 
plied Cecco  in  a  hollow  voice. 

"Bill  Jukes  dead !"  cried  the  startled  pirates. 

"The  cabin's  as  black  as  a  pit,"  Cecco  said,  al- 
most gibbering,  "but  there  is  something  terrible  in 
there :  the  thing  you  heard  crowing." 

The  exultation  of  the  boys,  the  lowering  looks 
of  the  pirates,  both  were  seen  by  Hook. 

"Cecco,"  he  said  in  his  most  steely  voice,  "go 
back  and  fetch  me  out  that  doodle-doo." 

Cecco,  bravest  of  the  brave,  cowered  before  his 
captain,  crying,  "No,  no" ;  but  Hook  was  purring 
to  his  claw. 

"Did  you  say  you  would  go,  Cecco?"  he  said 
musingly. 

Cecco  went,  first  flinging  up  his  arms  despair- 
ingly. There  was  no  more  singing,  all  listened 
now;  and  again  came  a  death-screech  and  again  a 
crow. 

No  one  spoke  except  Slightly.  "Three,"  he  said. 
181 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

Hook  rallied  his  dogs  with  a  gesture.  "S'death 
and  odds  fish,"  he  thundered,  "who  is  to  bring  me 
that  doodle-doo1?" 

"Wait  till  Cecco  comes  out,"  growled  Starkey, 
and  the  others  took  up  the  cry. 

"I  think  I  heard  you  volunteer,  Starkey,"  said 
Hook,  purring  again. 

"No,  by  thunder!"  Starkey  cried. 

"My  hook  thinks  you  did,"  said  Hook,  crossing 
to  him.  "I  wonder  if  it  would  not  be  advisable, 
Starkey,  to  humour  the  hook*?" 

"I'll  swing  before  I  go  in  there,"  replied 
Starkey  doggedly,  and  again  he  had  the  support  of 
the  crew. 

"Is  it  mutiny*?"  asked  Hook  more  pleasantly 
than  ever.  "Starkey's  ringleader !" 

"Captain,  mercy!"  Starkey  whimpered,  all  of  a 
tremble  now. 

"Shake  hands,  Starkey,"  said  Hook,  proffering 
his  claw. 

Starkey  looked  round  for  help,  but  all  deserted 
him.  As  he  backed  Hook  advanced,  and  now  the 
red  spark  was  in  his  eye.  With  a  despairing  scream 
the  pirate  leapt  upon  Long  Tom  and  precipitated 
himself  into  the  sea. 

"Four,"  said  Slightly. 

"And  now,"  Hook  asked  courteously,  "did  any 
other  gentleman  say  mutiny*?"  Seizing  a  lantern 
and  raising  his  claw  with  a  menacing  gesture,  "I'll 
182 


"HOOK  OR  ME  THIS  TIME" 

bring  out  that  doodle-doo  myself,"  he  said,  and 
sped  into  the  cabin. 

"Five."  How  Slightly  longed  to  say  it.  He 
wetted  his  lips  to  be  ready,  but  Hook  came  stag- 
gering out,  without  his  lantern. 

"Something  blew  out  the  light,"  he  said  a  little 
unsteadily. 

"Something!"  echoed  Mullins. 

"What  of  Cecco?"  demanded  Noodler. 

"He's  as  dead  as  Jukes,"  said  Hook  shortly. 

His  reluctance  to  return  to  the  cabin  impressed 
them  all  unfavourably,  and  the  mutinous  sounds 
again  broke  forth.  All  pirates  are  superstitious, 
and  Cookson  cried,  "They  do  say  the  surest  sign  a 
ship's  accurst  is  when  there's  one  on  board  more 
than  can  be  accounted  for." 

"I've  heard,"  muttered  Mullins,  "he  always 
boards  the  pirate  craft  at  last.  Had  he  a  tail,  cap- 
tain?" 

"They  say,"  said  another,  looking  viciously  at 
Hook,  "that  when  he  comes  it's  in  the  likeness  of 
the  wickedest  man  aboard." 

"Had  he  a  hook,  captain*?"  asked  Cookson  in- 
solently; and  one  after  another  took  up  the  cry, 
"The  ship's  doomed!"  At  this  the  children  could 
not  resist  raising  a  cheer.  Hook  had  well-nigh 
forgotten  his  prisoners,  but  as  he  swung  round  on 
them  now  his  face  lit  up  again. 

"Lads,"  he  cried  to  his  crew,  "here's  a  notion. 

183 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

Open  the  cabin  door  and  drive  them  in.  Let  them 
fight  the  doodle-doo  for  their  lives.  If  they  kill 
him,  we're  so  much  the  better;  if  he  kills  them, 
we're  none  the  worse." 

For  the  last  time  his  dogs  admired  Hook,  and 
devotedly  they  did  his  bidding.  The  boys,  pre- 
tending to  struggle,  were  pushed  into  the  cabin  and 
the  door  was  closed  on  them. 

"Now,  listen!"  cried  Hook,  and  all  listened. 
But  not  one  dared  to  face  the  door.  Yes,  one, 
Wendy,  who  all  this  time  had  been  bound  to  the 
mast.  It  was  for  neither  a  scream  nor  a  crow  that 
she  was  watching,  it  was  for  the  reappearance  of 
Peter. 

She  had  not  long  to  wait.  In  the  cabin  he  had 
found  the  thing  for  which  he  had  gone  in  search : 
the  key  that  would  free  the  children  of  their 
manacles,  and  now  they  all  stole  forth,  armed  with 
such  weapons  as  they  could  find.  First  signing  to 
them  to  hide,  Peter  cut  Wendy's  bonds,  and  then 
nothing  could  have  been  easier  than  for  them  all 
to  fly  off  together ;  but  one  thing  barred  the  way, 
an  oath,  "Hook  or  me  this  time."  So  when  he  had 
freed  Wendy,  he  whispered  to  her  to  conceal  her- 
self with  the  others,  and  himself  took  her  place  by 
the  mast,  her  cloak  around  him  so  that  he  should 
pass  for  her.  Then  he  took  a  great  breath  and 
crowed. 

To  the  pirates  it  was  a  voice  crying  that  all  the 

184 


"HOOK  OR  ME  THIS  TIME" 

boys  lay  slain  in  the  cabin;  and  they  were  panic- 
stricken.  Hook  tried  to  hearten  them,  but  like 
the  dogs  he  had  made  them  they  showed  him  their 
fangs,  and  he  knew  that  if  he  took  his  eyes  off 
them  now  they  would  leap  at  him. 

"Lads,"  he  said,  ready  to  cajole  or  strike  as 
need  be,  but  never  quailing  for  an  instant,  "I've 
thought  it  out.  There's  a  Jonah  aboard." 

"Ay,"  they  snarled,  "a  man  wi'  a  hook." 

"No,  lads,  no,  it's  the  girl.  Never  was  luck  on 
a  pirate  ship  wi'  a  woman  on  board.  We'll  right 
the  ship  when  she's  gone." 

Some  of  them  remembered  that  this  had  been  a 
saying  of  Flint's.  "It's  worth  trying,"  they  said 
doubtfully. 

"Fling  the  girl  overboard,"  cried  Hook;  and 
they  made  a  rush  at  the  figure  in  the  cloak. 

"There's  none  can  save  you  now,  missy,"  Mul- 
lins  hissed  jeeringly. 

"There's  one,"  replied  the  figure. 

"Who's  that?" 

"Peter  Pan  the  avenger!"  came  the  terrible 
answer;  and  as  he  spoke  Peter  flung  off  his  cloak. 
Then  they  all  knew  who  'twas  that  had  been  un- 
doing them  in  the  cabin,  and  twice  Hook  essayed 
to  speak  and  twice  he  failed.  In  that  frightful 
moment  I  think  his  fierce  heart  broke. 

At  last  he  cried,  "Cleave  him  to  the  brisket!" 
but  without  conviction. 

185 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

"Down,  boys,  and  at  them !"  Peter's  voice  rang 
out ;  and  in  another  moment  the  clash  of  arms  was 
resounding  through  the  ship.  Had  the  pirates 
kept  together  it  is  certain  that  they  would  have 
won;  but  the  onset  came  when  they  were  all  un- 
strung, and  they  ran  hither  and  thither,  striking 
wildly,  each  thinking  himself  the  last  survivor  of 
the  crew.  Man  to  man  they  were  the  stronger; 
but  they  fought  on  the  defensive  only,  which 
enabled  the  boys  to  hunt  in  pairs  and  choose  their 
quarry.  Some  of  the  miscreants  leapt  into  the 
sea,  others  hid  in  dark  recesses,  where  they  were 
found  by  Slightly,  who  did  not  fight,  but  ran 
about  with  a  lantern  which  he  flashed  in  their 
faces,  so  that  they  were  half  blinded  and  fell  an 
easy  prey  to  the  reeking  swords  of  the  other  boys. 
There  was  little  sound  to  be  heard  but  the  clang 
of  weapons,  an  occasional  screech  or  splash,  and 
Slightly  monotonously  counting — five — six- 
seven — eight — nine — ten — eleven. 

I  think  all  were  gone  when  a  group  of  savage 
boys  surrounded  Hook,  who  seemed  to  have  a 
charmed  life,  as  he  kept  them  at  bay  in  that  circle 
of  fire.  They  had  done  for  his  dogs,  but  this  man 
alone  seemed  to  be  a  match  for  them  all.  Again 
and  again  they  closed  upon  him,  and  again  and 
again  he  hewed  a  clear  space.  He  had  lifted 
up  one  boy  with  his  hook,  and  was  using  him 
as  a  buckler,  when  another,  who  had  just  passed 

186 


"HOOK  OR  ME  THIS  TIME" 

his  sword  through  Mullins,  sprang  into  the 
fray. 

"Put  up  your  swords,  boys,"  cried  the  new- 
comer, "this  man  is  mine." 

Thus  suddenly  Hook  found  himself  face  to  face 
with  Peter.  The  others  drew  back  and  formed  a 
ring  round  them. 

For  long  the  two  enemies  looked  at  one  another, 
Hook  shuddering  slightly,  and  Peter  with  the 
strange  smile  upon  his  face. 

"So,  Pan,"  said  Hook  at  last,  "this  is  all  your 
doing." 

"Ay,  James  Hook,"  came  the  stern  answer,  "it 
is  all  my  doing." 

"Proud  and  insolent  youth,"  said  Hook,  "pre- 
pare to  meet  thy  doom." 

"Dark  and  sinister  man,"  Peter  answered,  "have 
at  thee." 

Without  more  words  they  fell  to,  and  for  a 
space  there  was  no  advantage  to  either  blade. 
Peter  was  a  superb  swordsman,  and  parried  with 
dazzling  rapidity;  ever  and  anon  he  followed  up 
a  feint  with  a  lunge  that  got  past  his  foe's  defence, 
but  his  shorter  reach  stood  him  in  ill  stead,  and  he 
could  not  drive  the  steel  home.  Hook,  scarcely 
his  inferior  in  brilliancy,  but  not  quite  so  nimble 
in  wrist  play,  forced  him  back  by  the  weight  of  his 
onset,  hoping  suddenly  to  end  all  with  a  favourite 
thrust,  taught  him  long  ago  by  Barbecue  at  Rio; 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

but  to  his  astonishment  he  found  this  thrust  turned 
aside  again  and  again.  Then  he  sought  to  close 
and  give  the  quietus  with  his  iron  hook,  which  all 
this  time  had  been  pawing  the  air;  but  Peter  dou- 
bled under  it  and,  lunging  fiercely,  pierced  him  in 
the  ribs.  At  sight  of  his  own  blood,  whose  pecu- 
liar colour,  you  remember,  was  offensive  to  him, 
the  sword  fell  from  Hook's  hand,  and  he  was  at 
Peter's  mercy. 

"Now!"  cried  all  the  boys,  but  with  a  mag- 
nificent gesture  Peter  invited  his  opponent  to  pick 
up  his  sword.  Hook  did  so  instantly,  but  with  a 
tragic  feeling  that  Peter  was  showing  good  form. 

Hitherto  he  had  thought  it  was  some  fiend 
fighting  him,  but  darker  suspicions  assailed  him 
now. 

"Pan,  who  and  what  art  thou*?"  he  cried 
huskily. 

"I'm  youth,  I'm  joy,"  Peter  answered  at  a  ven- 
ture, "I'm  a  little  bird  that  has  broken  out  of  the 

*gg" 

This,  of  course,  was  nonsense ;  but  it  was  proof 

to  the  unhappy  Hook  that  Peter  did  not  know  in 
the  least  who  or  what  he  was,  which  is  the  very 
pinnacle  of  good  form. 

"To't  again,"  he  cried  despairingly. 

He  fought  now  like  a  human  flail,  and  every 
sweep  of  that  terrible  sword  would  have  severed 
in  twain  any  man  or  boy  who  obstructed  it;  but 

188 


'  THIS   MAN   IS   MINE 


"HOOK  OR  ME  THIS  TIME" 

Peter  fluttered  round  him  as  if  the  very  wind  it 
made  blew  him  out  of  the  danger  zone.  And 
again  and  again  he  darted  in  and  pricked. 

Hook  was  fighting  now  without  hope.  That 
passionate  breast  no  longer  asked  for  life;  but  for 
one  boon  it  craved:  to  see  Peter  bad  form  before 
it  was  cold  for  ever. 

Abandoning  the  fight  he  rushed  into  the  powder 
magazine  and  fired  it. 

"In  two  minutes,"  he  cried,  "the  ship  will  be 
blown  to  pieces." 

Now,  now,  he  thought,  true  form  will  show. 

But  Peter  issued  from  the  powder  magazine 
with  the  shell  in  his  hands,  and  calmly  flung  it 
overboard. 

What  sort  of  form  was  Hook  himself  showing4? 
Misguided  man  though  he  was,  we  may  be  glad, 
without  sympathising  with  him,  that  in  the  end  he 
was  true  to  the  traditions  of  his  race.  The  other 
boys  were  flying  around  him  now,  flouting,  scorn- 
ful ;  and  as  he  staggered  about  the  deck  striking  up 
at  them  impotently,  his  mind  was  no  longer  with 
them ;  it  was  slouching  in  the  playing  fields  of  long 
ago,  or  being  sent  up  for  good,  or  watching  the 
wall-game  from  a  famous  wall.  And  his  shoes 
were  right,  and  his  waistcoat  was  right,  and  his  tie 
was  right,  and  his  socks  were  right. 

James  Hook,  thou  not  wholly  unheroic  figure, 
farewell. 

189 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

For  we  have  come  to  his  last  moment. 

Seeing  Peter  slowly  advancing  upon  him 
through  the  air  with  dagger  poised,  he  sprang 
upon  the  bulwarks  to  cast  himself  into  the  sea. 
He  did  not  know  that  the  crocodile  was  waiting 
for  him;  for  we  purposely  stopped  the  clock  that 
this  knowledge  might  be  spared  him :  a  little  mark 
of  respect  from  us  at  the  end. 

He  had  one  last  triumph,  which  I  think  we  need 
not  grudge  him.  As  he  stood  on  the  bulwark 
looking  over  his  shoulder  at  Peter  gliding  through 
the  air,  he  invited  him  with  a  gesture  to  use  his 
foot.  It  made  Peter  kick  instead  of  stab. 

At  last  Hook  had  got  the  boon  for  which  he 
craved. 

"Bad  form,"  he  cried  jeeringly,  and  went  con- 
tent to  the  crocodile. 

Thus  perished  James  Hook. 

"Seventeen,"  Slightly  sang  out;  but  he  was  not 
quite  correct  in  his  figures.  Fifteen  paid  the  pen- 
alty for  their  crimes  that  night;  but  two  reached 
the  shore:  Starkey  to  be  captured  by  the  redskins, 
who  made  him  nurse  for  all  their  papooses,  a  mel- 
ancholy come-down  for  a  pirate;  and  Smee,  who 
henceforth  wandered  about  the  world  in  his  spec- 
tacles, making  a  precarious  living  by  saying  he  was 
the  only  man  that  Jas.  Hook  had  feared. 

Wendy,  of  course,  had  stood  by  taking  no  part 
in  the  fight,  though  watching  Peter  with  glistening 

190 


"HOOK  OR  ME  THIS  TIME" 

eyes;  but  now  that  all  was  over  she  became  promi- 
nent again.  She  praised  them  equally,  and  shud- 
dered delightfully  when  Michael  showed  her  the 
place  where  he  had  killed  one;  and  then  she  took 
them  into  Hook's  cabin  and  pointed  to  his  watch 
which  was  hanging  on  a  nail.  It  said  "half-past 
one" ! 

The  lateness  of  the  hour  was  almost  the  biggest 
thing  of  all.  She  got  them  to  bed  in  the  pirates' 
bunks  pretty  quickly,  you  may  be  sure;  all  but 
Peter,  who  strutted  up  and  down  on  deck,  until  at 
last  he  fell  asleep  by  the  side  of  Long  Tom.  He 
had  one  of  his  dreams  that  night,  and  cried  in  his 
sleep  for  a  long  time,  and  Wendy  held  him  tight. 


191 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  RETURN  HOME 

BY  three  bells  next  morning  they  were  all  stirring 
their  stumps.  For  there  was  a  big  sea  running,  and 
Tootles,  the  bo' sun,  was  among  them,  with  a 
rope's  end  in  his  hand  and  chewing  tobacco.  They 
all  donned  pirate  clothes  cut  off  at  the  knee, 
shaved  smartly,  and  tumbled  up,  with  the  true 
nautical  roll  and  hitching  their  trousers. 

It  need  not  be  said  who  was  the  captain.  Nibs 
and  John  were  first  and  second  mate.  There  was 
a  woman  aboard.  The  rest  were  tars  before  the 
mast,  and  lived  in  the  fo'c'sle.  Peter  had  already 
lashed  himself  to  the  wheel ;  but  he  piped  all  hands 
and  delivered  a  short  address  to  them;  said  he 
hoped  they  would  do  their  duty  like  gallant 
hearties,  but  that  he  knew  they  were  the  scum  of 
Rio  and  the  Gold  Coast,  and  if  they  snapped  at 
him  he  would  tear  them.  His  bluff  strident  words 
struck  the  note  sailors  understand,  and  they 
cheered  him  lustily.  Then  a  few  sharp  orders 
were  given,  and  they  turned  the  ship  round,  and 
nosed  her  for  the  mainland. 

192 


THE  RETURN  HOME 

Captain  Pan  calculated,  after  consulting  the 
ship's  chart,  that  if  this  weather  lasted,  they 
should  strike  the  Azores  about  the  2ist  of  June, 
after  which  it  would  save  time  to  fly. 

Some  of  them  wanted  it  to  be  an  honest  ship 
and  others  were  in  favour  of  keeping  it  a  pirate; 
but  the  captain  treated  them  as  dogs,  and  they 
dared  not  express  their  wishes  to  him  even  in  a 
round  robin.  Instant  obedience  was  the  only  safe 
thing.  Slightly  got  a  dozen  for  looking  perplexed 
when  told  to  take  soundings.  The  general  feeling 
was  that  Peter  was  honest  just  now  to  lull 
Wendy's  suspicions,  but  that  there  might  be  a 
change  when  the  new  suit  was  ready,  which, 
against  her  will,  she  was  making  for  him  out  of 
some  of  Hook's  wickedest  garments.  It  was  after- 
wards whispered  among  them  that  on  the  first 
night  he  wore  this  suit  he  sat  long  in  the  cabin 
with  Hook's  cigar-holder  in  his  mouth  and  one 
hand  clenched,  all  but  the  forefinger,  which  he 
bent  and  held  threateningly  aloft  like  a  hook. 

Instead  of  watching  the  ship,  however,  we  must 
now  return  to  that  desolate  home  from  which 
three  of  our  characters  had  taken  heartless  flight 
so  long  ago.  It  seems  a  shame  to  have  neglected 
No.  14  all  this  time;  and  yet  we  may  be  sure  that 
Mrs.  Darling  does  not  blame  us.  If  we  had  re- 
turned sooner  to  look  with  sorrowful  sympathy  at 
her,  she  would  probably  have  cried,  "Don't  be 

193 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

silly,  what  do  I  matter?  Do  go  back  and  keep  an 
eye  on  the  children."  So  long  as  mothers  are  like 
this  their  children  will  take  advantage  of  them; 
and  they  may  lay  to  that. 

Even  now  we  venture  into  that  familiar  nursery 
only  because  its  lawful  occupants  are  on  their  way 
home;  we  are  merely  hurrying  on  in  advance  of 
them  to  see  that  their  beds  are  properly  aired  and 
that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Darling  do  not  go  out  for  the 
evening.  We  are  no  more  than  servants.  Why 
on  earth  should  their  beds  be  properly  aired,  see- 
ing that  they  left  them  in  such  a  thankless  hurry? 
Would  it  not  serve  them  jolly  well  right  if  they 
came  back  and  found  that  their  parents  were 
spending  the  week-end  in  the  country?  It  would 
be  the  moral  lesson  they  have  been  in  need  of  ever 
since  we  met  them;  but  if  we  contrived  things  in 
this  way  Mrs.  Darling  would  never  forgive  us. 

One  thing  I  should  like  to  do  immensely,  and 
that  is  to  tell  her,  in  the  way  authors  have,  that 
the  children  are  coming  back,  that  indeed  they  will 
be  here  on  Thursday  week.  This  would  spoil  so 
completely  the  surprise  to  which  Wendy  and  John 
and  Michael  are  looking  forward.  They  have 
been  planning  it  out  on  the  ship :  mother's  rapture, 
father's  shout  of  joy,  Nana's  leap  through  the  air 
to  embrace  them  first,  when  what  they  ought  to  be 
preparing  for  is  a  good  hiding.  How  delicious  to 
spoil  it  all  by  breaking  the  news  in  advance;  so 

194 


THE  RETURN  HOME 

that  when  they  enter  grandly  Mrs.  Darling  may 
not  even  offer  Wendy  her  mouth,  and  Mr.  Darling 
may  exclaim  pettishly,  "Dash  it  all,  here  are 
those  boys  again."  However,  we  should  get  no 
thanks  even  for  this.  We  are  beginning  to  know 
Mrs.  Darling  by  this  time,  and  may  be  sure  that 
she  would  upbraid  us  for  depriving  the  children  of 
their  little  pleasure. 

"But,  my  dear  madam,  it  is  ten  days  till  Thurs- 
day week;  so  that  by  telling  you  what's  what,  we 
can  save  you  ten  days  of  unhappiness." 

"Yes,  but  at  what  a  cost!  By  depriving  the 
children  of  ten  minutes  of  delight." 

"Oh,  if  you  look  at  it  in  that  way!" 

"What  other  way  is  there  in  which  to  look  at 
it?" 

You  see,  the  woman  had  no  proper  spirit.  I 
had  meant  to  say  extraordinarily  nice  things  about 
her;  but  I  despise  her,  and  not  one  of  them  will 
I  say  now.  She  does  not  really  need  to  be  told  to 
have  things  ready,  for  they  are  ready.  All  the 
beds  are  aired,  and  she  never  leaves  the  house, 
and  observe,  the  window  is  open.  For  all  the  use 
we  are  to  her,  we  might  go  back  to  the  ship.  How- 
ever, as  we  are  here  we  may  as  well  stay  and  look 
on.  That  is  all  we  are,,  lookers-on.  Nobody  really 
wants  us.  So  let  us  watch  and  say  jaggy  things, 
in  the  hope  that  some  of  them  will  hurt. 

The  only  change  to  be  seen  in  the  night-nursery 

195 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

is  that  between  nine  and  six  the  kennel  is  no 
longer  there.  When  the  children  flew  away,  Mr. 
Darling  felt  in  his  bones  that  all  the  blame  was  his 
for  having  chained  Nana  up,  and  that  from  first 
to  last  she  had  been  wiser  than  he.  Of  course,  as 
we  have  seen,  he  was  quite  a  simple  man;  indeed 
he  might  have  passed  for  a  boy  again  if  he  had 
been  able  to  take  his  baldness  off;  but  he  had  also 
a  noble  sense  of  justice  and  a  lion  courage  to  do 
what  seemed  right  to  him;  and  having  thought 
the  matter  out  with  anxious  care  after  the  flight 
of  the  children,  he  went  down  on  all  fours  and 
crawled  into  the  kennel.  To  all  Mrs.  Darling's 
dear  invitations  to  him  to  come  out  he  replied 
sadly  but  firmly : 

"No,  my  own  one,  this  is  the  place  for  me." 

In  the  bitterness  of  his  remorse  he  swore  that  he 
would  never  leave  the  kennel  until  his  children 
came  back.  Of  course  this  was  a  pity;  but  what- 
ever Mr.  Darling  did  he  had  to  do  in  excess, 
otherwise  he  soon  gave  up  doing  it.  And  there 
never  was  a  more  humble  man  than  the  once  proud 
George  Darling,  as  he  sat  in  the  kennel  of  an 
evening  talking  with  his  wife  of  their  children 
and  all  their  pretty  ways. 

Very  touching  was  his  deference  to  Nana.  He 
would  not  let  her  come  into  the  kennel,  but  on  all 
other  matters  he  followed  her  wishes  implicitly. 

Every  morning  the  kennel  was  carried  with  Mr. 
196 


THE  RETURN  HOME 

Darling  in  it  to  a  cab,  which  conveyed  him  to  his 
office,  and  he  returned  home  in  the  same  way  at 
six.  Something  of  the  strength  of  character  of 
the  man  will  be  seen  if  we  remember  how  sensitive 
he  was  to  the  opinion  of  neighbours:  this  man 
whose  every  movement  now  attracted  surprised  at- 
tention. Inwardly  he  must  have  suffered  torture ; 
but  he  preserved  a  calm  exterior  even  when  the 
young  criticised  his  little  home,  and  he  always 
lifted  his  hat  courteously  to  any  lady  who  looked 
inside. 

It  may  have  been  quixotic,  but  it  was  magnifi- 
cent. Soon  the  inward  meaning  of  it  leaked  out, 
and  the  great  heart  of  the  public  was  touched. 
Crowds  followed  the  cab,  cheering  it  lustily; 
charming  girls  scaled  it  to  get  his  autograph;  in- 
terviews appeared  in  the  better  class  of  papers, 
and  society  invited  him  to  dinner  and  added,  "Do 
come  in  the  kennel." 

On  that  eventful  Thursday  week  Mrs.  Darling 
was  in  the  night-nursery  awaiting  George's  return 
home :  a  very  sad-eyed  woman.  Now  that  we  look 
at  her  closely  and  remember  the  gaiety  of  her  in 
the  old  days,  all  gone  now  just  because  she  has  lost 
her  babes,  I  find  I  won't  be  able  to  say  nasty 
things  about  her  after  all.  If  she  was  too  fond 
of  her  rubbishy  children  she  couldn't  help  it.  Look 
at  her  in  her  chair,  where  she  has  fallen  asleep. 
The  corner  of  her  mouth,  where  one  looks  first,  is 

197 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

almost  withered  up.  Her  hand  moves  restlessly  on 
her  breast  as  if  she  had  a  pain  there.  Some  like 
Peter  best  and  some  like  Wendy  best,  but  I  like 
her  best.  Suppose,  to  make  her  happy,  we  whis- 
per to  her  in  her  sleep  that  the  brats  are  coming 
back.  They  are  really  within  two  miles  of  the 
window  now,  and  flying  strong,  but  all  we  need 
whisper  is  that  they  are  on  the  way.  Let's. 

It  is  a  pity  we  did  it,  for  she  has  started  up, 
calling  their  names;  and  there  is  no  one  in  the 
room  but  Nana. 

"O  Nana,  I  dreamt  my  dear  ones  had  come 
back." 

Nana  had  filmy  eyes,  but  all  she  could  do  was 
to  put  her  paw  gently  on  her  mistress's  lap,  and 
they  were  sitting  together  thus  when  the  kennel 
was  brought  back.  As  Mr.  Darling  puts  his  head 
out  at  it  to  kiss  his  wife,  we  see  that  his  face  is 
more  worn  than  of  yore,  but  has  a  softer  expres- 
sion. 

He  gave  his  hat  to  Liza,  who  took  it  scorn- 
fully; for  she  had  no  imagination,  and  was  quite 
incapable  of  understanding  the  motives  of  such  a 
man.  Outside,  the  crowd  who  had  accompanied 
the  cab  home  were  still  cheering,  and  he  was  natu- 
rally not  unmoved. 

"Listen  to  them,"  he  said;  "it  is  very  gratify- 
ing." 

"Lot  of  little  boys,"  sneered  Liza. 
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THE  RETURN  HOME 

"There  were  several  adults  to-day,"  he  assured 
her  with  a  faint  flush;  but  when  she  tossed  her 
head  he  had  not  a  word  of  reproof  for  her.  Social 
success  had  not  spoilt  him;  it  had  made  him 
sweeter.  For  some  time  he  sat  with  his  head  out 
of  the  kennel,  talking  with  Mrs.  Darling  of  this 
success,  and  pressing  her  hand  reassuringly  when 
she  said  she  hoped  his  head  would  not  be  turned 
by  it. 

"But  if  I  had  been  a  weak  man,"  he  said. 
"Good  heavens,  if  I  had  been  a  weak  man !" 

"And,  George,"  she  said  timidly,  "you  are  as 
full  of  remorse  as  ever,  aren't  you?" 

"Full  of  remorse  as  ever,  dearest !  See  my  pun- 
ishment :  living  in  a  kennel." 

"But  it  is  punishment,  isn't  it,  George1?  You 
are  sure  you  are  not  enjoying  it?" 

"My  love!" 

You  may  be  sure  she  begged  his  pardon;  and 
then,  feeling  drowsy,  he  curled  round  in  the 
kennel. 

"Won't  you  play  me  to  sleep,"  he  asked,  "on 
the  nursery  piano?"  and  as  she  was  crossing  to  the 
day-nursery  he  added  thoughtlessly,  "and  shut 
that  window.  I  feel  a  draught." 

"O  George,  never  ask  me  to  do  that.  The  win- 
dow must  always  be  left  open  for  them,  always, 
always." 

Now  it  was  his  turn  to  beg  her  pardon ;  and  she 
199 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

went  into  the  day-nursery  and  played,  and  soon  he 
was  asleep;  and  while  he  slept,  Wendy  and  John 
and  Michael  flew  into  the  room. 

Oh  no.  We  have  written  it  so,  because  that 
was  the  charming  arrangement  planned  by  them 
before  we  left  the  ship ;  but  something  must  have 
happened  since  then,  for  it  is  not  they  who  have 
flown  in,  it  is  Peter  and  Tinker  Bell. 

Peter's  first  words  tell  all. 

"Quick,  Tink,"  he  whispered,  "close  the  win- 
dow ;  bar  it !  That's  right.  Now  you  and  I  must 
get  away  by  the  door;  and  when  Wendy  comes 
she  will  think  her  mother  has  barred  her  out,  and 
she  will  have  to  go  back  with  me." 

Now  I  understand  what  had  hitherto  puzzled 
me,  why  when  Peter  had  exterminated  the  pirates 
he  did  not  return  to  the  island  and  leave  Tink  to 
escort  the  children  to  the  mainland.  This  trick 
had  been  in  his  head  all  the  time. 

Instead  of  feeling  that  he  was  behaving  badly 
he  danced  with  glee ;  then  he  peeped  into  the  day- 
nursery  to  see  who  was  playing.  He  whispered  to 
Tink,  "It's  Wendy's  mother !  She  is  a  pretty  lady, 
but  not  so  pretty  as  my  mother.  Her  mouth  is 
full  of  thimbles,  but  not  so  full  as  my  mother's 
was." 

Of  course  he  knew  nothing  whatever  about  his 
mother;  but  he  sometimes  bragged  about  her. 

He  did  not  know  the  tune,  which  was  "Home, 
200 


THE  RETURN  HOME 

Sweet  Home,"  but  he  knew  it  was  saying,  "Come 
back,  Wendy,  Wendy,  Wendy";  and  he  cried 
exultantly,  "You  will  never  see  Wendy  again, 
lady,  for  the  window  is  barred !" 

He  peeped  in  again  to  see  why  the  music  had 
stopped,  and  now  he  saw  that  Mrs.  Darling  had 
laid  her  head  on  the  box,  and  that  two  tears  were 
sitting  on  her  eyes. 

"She  wants  me  to  unbar  the  window,"  thought 
Peter,  "but  I  won't,  not  I !" 

He  peeped  again,  and  the  tears  were  still  there, 
or  another  two  had  taken  their  place. 

"She's  awfully  fond  of  Wendy,"  he  said  to 
himself.  He  was  angry  with  her  now  for  not 
seeing  why  she  could  not  have  Wendy. 

The  reason  was  so  simple:  "I'm  fond  of  her 
too.  We  can't  both  have  her,  lady." 

But  the  lady  would  not  make  the  best  of  it,  and 
he  was  unhappy.  He  ceased  to  look  at  her,  but 
even  then  she  would  not  let  go  of  him.  He 
skipped  about  and  made  funny  faces,  but  when 
he  stopped  it  was  just  as  if  she  were  inside  him, 
knocking. 

"Oh,  all  right,"  he  said  at  last,  and  gulped. 
Then  he  unbarred  the  window.  "Come  on,  Tink," 
he  cried,  with  a  frightful  sneer  at  the  laws  of  na- 
ture; "we  don't  want  any  silly  mothers";  and  he 
flew  away. 

Thus  Wendy  and  John  and  Michael  found  the 

201 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

window  open  for  them  after  all,  which  of  course 
was  more  than  they  deserved.  They  alighted 
on  the  floor,  quite  unashamed  of  themselves, 
and  the  youngest  one  had  already  forgotten  his 
home. 

"John,"  he  said,  looking  around  him  doubt- 
fully, "I  think  I  have  been  here  before." 

"Of  course  you  have,  you  silly.  There  is  your 
old  bed." 

"So  it  is,"  Michael  said,  but  not  with  much  con- 
viction. 

"I  say,"  cried  John,  "the  kennel!"  and  he 
dashed  across  to  look  into  it. 

"Perhaps  Nana  is  inside  it,"  Wendy  said. 

But  John  whistled.  "Hullo,"  he  said,  "there's 
a  man  inside  it." 

"It's  father!"  exclaimed  Wendy. 

"Let  me  see  father,"  Michael  begged  eagerly, 
and  he  took  a  good  look.  "He  is  not  so  big  as 
the  pirate  I  killed,"  he  said  with  such  frank  dis- 
appointment that  I  am  glad  Mr.  Darling  was 
asleep;  it  would  have  been  sad  if  those  had  been 
the  first  words  he  heard  his  little  Michael  say. 

Wendy  and  John  had  been  taken  aback  some- 
what at  finding  their  father  in  the  kennel. 

"Surely,"  said  John,  like  one  who  had  lost  faith 
in  his  memory,  "he  used  not  to  sleep  in  the 
kennel1?" 

"John,"  Wendy  said  falteringly,  "perhaps  we 

202 


THE  RETURN  HOME 

don't  remember  the  old  life  as  well  as  we  thought 
we  did." 

A  chill  fell  upon  them;  and  serve  them  right. 

"It  is  very  careless  of  mother,"  said  that  young 
scoundrel  John,  "not  to  be  here  when  we  come 
back." 

It  was  then  that  Mrs.  Darling  began  playing 
again. 

"It's  mother!"  cried  Wendy,  peeping. 

"So  it  is!"  said  John. 

"Then  are  you  not  really  our  mother,  Wendy*?" 
asked  Michael,  who  was  surely  sleepy. 

"Oh  dear!"  exclaimed  Wendy,  with  her  first 
real  twinge  of  remorse,  "it  was  quite  time  we  came 
back." 

"Let  us  creep  in,"  John  suggested,  "and  put  our 
hands  over  her  eyes." 

But  Wendy,  who  saw  that  they  must  break  the 
joyous  news  more  gently,  had  a  better  plan. 

"Let  us  all  slip  into  our  beds,  and  be  there  when 
she  comes  in,  just  as  if  we  had  never  been  away." 

And  so  when  Mrs.  Darling  went  back  to  the 
night-nursery  to  see  if  her  husband  was  asleep,  all 
the  beds  were  occupied.  The  children  waited  for 
her  cry  of  joy,  but  it  did  not  come.  She  saw  them, 
but  she  did  not  believe  they  were  there.  You 
see,  she  saw  them  in  their  beds  so  often  in  her 
dreams  that  she  thought  this  was  just  the  dream 
hanging  around  her  still. 

203 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

She  sat  down  in  the  chair  by  the  fire,  where  in 
the  old  days  she  had  nursed  them. 

They  could  not  understand  this,  and  a  cold  fear 
fell  upon  all  the  three  of  them. 

"Mother!"  Wendy  cried. 

"That's  Wendy,"  she  said,  but  still  she  was 
sure  it  was  the  dream. 

"Mother!" 

"That's  John,"  she  said. 

"Mother!"  cried  Michael.    He  knew  her  now. 

"That's  Michael,"  she  said,  and  she  stretched 
out  her  arms  for  the  three  little  selfish  children 
they  would  never  envelop  again.  Yes,  they  did, 
they  went  round  Wendy  and  John  and  Michael, 
who  had  slipped  out  of  bed  and  run  to  her. 

"George,  George!"  she  cried  when  she  could 
speak;  and  Mr.  Darling  woke  to  share  her  bliss, 
and  Nana  came  rushing  in.  There  could  not  have 
been  a  lovelier  sight;  but  there  was  none  to  see  it 
except  a  little  boy  who  was  staring  in  at  the  win- 
dow. He  had  ecstasies  innumerable  that  other 
children  can  never  know;  but  he  was  looking 
through  the  window  at  the  one  joy  from  which 
he  must  be  for  ever  barred. 


204 


CHAPTER  XVII 

WHEN   WENDY  GREW  UP 

I  HOPE  you  want  to  know  what  became  of  the 
other  boys.  They  were  waiting  below  to  give 
Wendy  time  to  explain  about  them,  and  when 
they  had  counted  five  hundred  they  went  up.  They 
went  up  by  the  stair,  because  they  thought  this 
would  make  a  better  impression.  They  stood  in  a 
row  in  front  of  Mrs.  Darling,  with  their  hats  off, 
and  wishing  they  were  not  wearing  their  pirate 
clothes.  They  said  nothing,  but  their  eyes  asked 
her  to  have  them.  They  ought  to  have  looked  at 
Mr.  Darling  also,  but  they  forgot  about  him. 

Of  course  Mrs.  Darling  said  at  once  that  she 
would  have  them;  but  Mr.  Darling  was  curiously 
depressed,  and  they  saw  that  he  considered  six  a 
rather  large  number. 

"I  must  say,"  he  said  to  Wendy,  "that  you 
don't  do  things  by  halves,"  a  grudging  remark 
which  the  twins  thought  was  pointed  at  them. 

The  first  twin  was  the  proud  one,  and  he  asked, 
flushing,  "Do  you  think  we  should  be  too  much 
of  a  handful,  sir?  Because  if  so  we  can  go  away." 

205 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

"Father!"  Wendy  cried,  shocked;  but  still  the 
cloud  was  on  him.  He  knew  he  was  behaving  un- 
worthily, but  he  could  not  help  it. 

"We  could  lie  doubled  up,"  said  Nibs. 

"I  always  cut  their  hair  myself,"  said  Wendy. 

"George!"  Mrs.  Darling  exclaimed,  pained  to 
see  her  dear  one  showing  himself  in  such  an  unfa- 
vourable light. 

Then  he  burst  into  tears,  and  the  truth  came 
out.  He  was  as  glad  to  have  them  as  she  was,  he 
said,  but  he  thought  they  should  have  asked  his 
consent  as  well  as  hers,  instead  of  treating  him  as 
a  cypher  in  his  own  house. 

"I  don't  think  he  is  a  cypher,"  Tootles  cried 
instantly.  "Do  you  think  he  is  a  cypher,  Curly*?" 

"No  I  don't.  Do  you  think  he  is  a  cypher, 
Slightly?" 

"Rather  not.    Twin,  what  do  you  think*?" 

It  turned  out  that  not  one  of  them  thought  him 
a  cypher;  and  he  was  absurdly  gratified,  and  said 
he  would  find  space  for  them  all  in  the  drawing- 
room  if  they  fitted  in. 

"We'll  fit  in,  sir,"  they  assured  him. 

"Then  follow  the  leader,"  he  cried  gaily. 
"Mind  you,  I  am  not  sure  that  we  have  a  draw- 
ing-room, but  we  pretend  we  have,  and  it's  all  the 
same.  Hoop  la !" 

He  went  off  dancing  through  the  house,  and 
they  all  cried  "Hoop  la!"  and  danced  after  him, 

206 


WHEN  WENDY  GREW  UP 

searching  for  the  drawing-room;  and  I  forget 
whether  they  found  it,  but  at  any  rate  they  found 
corners,  and  they  all  fitted  in. 

As  for  Peter,  he  saw  Wendy  once  again  before 
he  flew  away.  He  did  not  exactly  come  to  the 
window,  but  he  brushed  against  it  in  passing,  so 
that  she  could  open  it  if  she  liked  and  call  to  him. 
That  was  what  she  did. 

"Hullo,  Wendy,  good-bye,"  he  said. 

"Oh  dear,  are  you  going  away?" 

"Yes." 

"You  don't  feel,  Peter,"  she  said  falteringly, 
"that  you  would  like  to  say  anything  to  my  par- 
ents about  a  very  sweet  subject?" 

"No." 

"About  me,  Peter?" 

"No." 

Mrs.  Darling  came  to  the  window,  for  at  pres- 
ent she  was  keeping  a  sharp  eye  on  Wendy.  She 
told  Peter  that  she  had  adopted  all  the  other  boys, 
and  would  like  to  adopt  him  also. 

"Would  you  send  me  to  school?"  he  inquired 
craftily. 

"Yes." 

"And  then  to  an  office?" 

"I  suppose  so." 

"Soon  I  should  be  a  man?" 

"Very  soon." 

"I  don't  want  to  go  to  school  and  learn  solemn 
207 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

things,"  he  told  her  passionately.  "I  don't  want 
to  be  a  man.  O  Wendy's  mother,  if  I  was  to  wake 
up  and  feel  there  was  a  beard!" 

"Peter,"  said  Wendy  the  comforter,  "I  should 
love  you  in  a  beard;"  and  Mrs.  Darling  stretched 
out  her  arms  to  him,  but  he  repulsed  her. 

"Keep  back,  lady,  no  one  is  going  to  catch  me 
and  make  me  a  man." 

"But  where  are  you  going  to  live?" 

"With  Tink  in  the  house  we  built  for  Wendy. 
The  fairies  are  to  put  it  high  up  among  the  tree 
tops  where  they  sleep  at  nights." 

"How  lovely,"  cried  Wendy  so  longingly  that 
Mrs.  Darling  tightened  her  grip. 

"I  thought  all  the  fairies  were  dead,"  Mrs. 
Darling  said. 

"There  are  always  a  lot  of  young  ones,"  ex- 
plained Wendy,  who  was  now  quite  an  authority, 
"because  you  see  when  a  new  baby  laughs  for  the 
first  time  a  new  fairy  is  born,  and  as  there  are 
always  new  babies  there  are  always  new  fairies. 
They  live  in  nests  on  the  tops  .of  trees ;  and  the 
mauve  ones  are  boys  and  the  white  ones  are  girls, 
and  the  blue  ones  are  just  little  sillies  who  are  not 
sure  what  they  are." 

"I  shall  have  such  fun,"  said  Peter,  with  one 
eye  on  Wendy. 

"It  will  be  rather  lonely  in  the  evening,"  she 
said,  "sitting  by  the  fire." 

208 


WHEN  WENDY  GREW  UP 

"I  shall  have  Tink." 

"Tink  can't  go  a  twentieth  part  of  the  way 
round,"  she  reminded  him  a  little  tartly. 

"Sneaky  tell-tale!"  Tink  called  out  from  some- 
where round  the  corner. 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  Peter  said. 

"O  Peter,  you  know  it  matters." 

"Well,  then,  come  with  me  to  the  little  house." 

"May  I,  mummy  ?" 

"Certainly  not.  I  have  got  you  home  again, 
and  I  mean  to  keep  you." 

"But  he  does  so  need  a  mother." 

"So  do  you,  my  love." 

"Oh,  all  right,"  Peter  said,  as  if  he  had  asked 
her  from  politeness  merely ;  but  Mrs.  Darling  saw 
his  mouth  twitch,  and  she  made  this  handsome 
offer:  to  let  Wendy  go  to  him  for  a  week  every 
year  and  do  his  spring  cleaning.  Wendy  would 
have  preferred  a  more  permanent  arrangement, 
and  it  seemed  to  her  that  spring  would  be  long  in 
coming,  but  this  promise  sent  Peter  away  quite 
gay  again.  He  had  no  .sense  of  time,  and  was  so 
full  of  adventures  that  all  I  have  told  you  about 
him  is  only  a  halfpenny  worth  of  them.  I  sup- 
pose it  was  because  Wendy  knew  this  that  her  last 
words  to  him  were  these  rather  plaintive  ones : 

"You  won't  forget  me,  Peter,  will  you,  before 
spring-cleaning  time  comes  *?" 

Of  course  Peter  promised,  and  then  he  flew 
209 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

away.  He  took  Mrs.  Darling's  kiss  with  him. 
The  kiss  that  had  been  for  no  one  else  Peter  took 
quite  easily.  Funny.  But  she  seemed  satisfied. 

Of  course  all  the  boys  went  to  school ;  and  most 
of  them  got  into  Class  in.,  but  Slightly  was  put 
first  into  Class  iv.  and  then  into  Class  v.  Class  i. 
is  the  top  class.  Before  they  had  attended  school 
a  week  they  saw  what  goats  they  had  been  not 
to  remain  on  the  island;  but  it  was  too  late  now, 
and  soon  they  settled  down  to  being  as  ordinary 
as  you  or  me  or  Jenkins  minor.  It  is  sad  to  have 
to  say  that  the  power  to  fly  gradually  left  them. 
At  first  Nana  tied  their  feet  to  the  bed-posts  so 
that  they  should  not  fly  away  in  the  night;  and 
one  of  their  diversions  by  day  was  to  pretend  to 
fall  off  buses;  but  by  and  by  they  ceased  to  tug 
at  their  bonds  in  bed,  and  found  that  they  hurt 
themselves  when  they  let  go  of  the  bus.  In  time 
they  could  not  even  fly  after  their  hats.  Want  of 
practice,  they  called  it;  but  what  it  really  meant 
was  that  they  no  longer  believed. 

Michael  believed  longer  than  the  other  boys, 
though  they  jeered  at  him;  so  he  was  with  Wendy 
when  Peter  came  for  her  at  the  end  of  the  first 
year.  She  flew  away  with  Peter  in  the  frock  she 
had  woven  from  leaves  and  berries  in  the  Never- 
land,  and  her  one  fear  was  that  he  might  notice 
how  short  it  had  become,  but  he  never  noticed, 
he  had  so  much  to  say  about  himself. 

210 


WHEN  WENDY  GREW  UP 

She  had  looked  forward  to  thrilling  talks  with 
him  about  old  times,  but  new  adventures  had 
crowded  the  old  ones  from  his  mind. 

"Who  is  Captain  Hook?"  he  asked  with  inter- 
est when  she  spoke  of  the  arch  enemy. 

"Don't  you  remember,"  she  asked,  amazed, 
"how  you  killed  him  and  saved  all  our  lives'?" 

"I  forget  them  after  I  kill  them,"  he  replied 
carelessly. 

When  she  expressed  a  doubtful  hope  that 
Tinker  Bell  would  be  glad  to  see  her  he  said, 
"Who  is  Tinker  Bell?' 

"O  Peter!"  she  said,  shocked;  but  even  when 
she  explained  he  could  not  remember. 

"There  are  such  a  lot  of  them,"  he  said.  "I 
expect  she  is  no  more." 

I  expect  he  was  right,  for  fairies  don't  live  long, 
but  they  are  so  little  that  a  short  time  seems  a 
good  while  to  them. 

Wendy  was  pained  too  to  find  that  the  past 
year  was  but  as  yesterday  to  Peter;  it  had  seemed 
such  a  long  year  of  waiting  to  her.  But  he  was 
exactly  as  fascinating  as  ever,  and  they  had  a 
lovely  spring  cleaning  in  the  little  house  on  the 
tree  tops. 

Next  year  he  did  not  come  for  her.  She  waited 
in  a  new  frock  because  the  old  one  simply  would 
not  meet,  but  he  never  came. 

"Perhaps  he  is  ill,"  Michael  said. 

211 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

"You  know  he  is  never  ill." 

Michael  came  close  to  her  and  whispered,  with 
a  shiver,  "Perhaps  there  is  no  such  person, 
Wendy!"  and  then  Wendy  would  have  cried  if 
Michael  had  not  been  crying. 

Peter  came  next  spring  cleaning;  and  the 
strange  thing  was  that  he  never  knew  he  had 
missed  a  year. 

That  was  the  last  time  the  girl  Wendy  ever 
saw  him.  For  a  little  longer  she  tried  for  his  sake 
not  to  have  growing  pains;  and  she  felt  she  was 
untrue  to  him  when  she  got  a  prize  for  general 
knowledge.  But  the  years  came  and  went  without 
bringing  the  careless  boy;  and  when  they  met 
again  Wendy  was  a  married  woman,  and  Peter 
was  no  more  to  her  than  a  little  dust  in  the  box 
in  which  she  had  kept  her  toys.  Wendy  was 
grown  up.  You  need  not  be  sorry  for  her.  She 
was  one  of  the  kind  that  likes  to  grow  up.  In  the 
end  she  grew  up  of  her  own  free  will  a  day  quicker 
than  other  girls. 

All  the  boys  were  grown  up  and  done  for  by 
this  time ;  so  it  is  scarcely  worth  while  saying  any- 
thing more  about  them.  You  may  see  the  twins 
and  Nibs  and  Curly  any  day  going  to  an  office, 
each  carrying  a  little  bag  and  an  umbrella. 
Michael  is  an  engine-driver.  Slightly  married  a 
lady  of  title,  and  so  he  became  a  lord.  You  see 
that  judge  in  a  wig  coming  out  at  the  iron  door 9 

212 


WHEN  WENDY  GREW  UP 

That  used  to  be  Tootles.  The  bearded  man  who 
doesn't  know  any  story  to  tell  his  children  was 
once  John. 

Wendy  was  married  in  white  with  a  pink  sash. 
It  is  strange  to  think  that  Peter  did  not  alight  in 
the  church  and  forbid  the  banns. 

Years  rolled  on  again,  and  Wendy  had  a 
daughter.  This  ought  not  to  be  written  in  ink  but 
in  a  golden  splash. 

She  was  called  Jane,  and  always  had  an  odd 
inquiring  look,  as  if  from  the  moment  she  arrived 
on  the  mainland  she  wanted  to  ask  questions. 
When  she  was  old  enough  to  ask  them  they  were 
mostly  about  Peter  Pan.  She  loved  to  hear  of 
Peter,  and  Wendy  told  her  all  she  could  remember 
in  the  very  nursery  from  which  the  famous  flight 
had  taken  place.  It  was  Jane's  nursery  now,  for 
her  father  had  bought  it  at  the  three  per  cents, 
from  Wendy's  father,  who  was  no  longer  fond 
of  stairs.  Mrs.  Darling  was  now  dead  and  for- 
gotten. 

There  were  only  two  beds  in  the  nursery  now, 
Jane's  and  her  nurse's;  and  there  was  no  kennel, 
for  Nana  also  had  passed  away.  She  died  of  old 
age,  and  at  the  end  she  had  been  rather  difficult 
to  get  on  with,  being  very  firmly  convinced  that 
no  one  knew  how  to  look  after  children  except 
herself. 

Once  a  week  Jane's  nurse  had  her  evening  off, 
213 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

and  then  it  was  Wendy's  part  to  put  Jane  to  bed. 
That  was  the  time  for  stories.  It  was  Jane's  in- 
vention to  raise  the  sheet  over  her  mother's  head 
and  her  own,  thus  making  a  tent,  and  in  the  awful 
darkness  to  whisper: — 

"What  do  we  see  now?" 

"I  don't  think  I  see  anything  to-night,"  says 
Wendy,  with  a  feeling  that  if  Nana  were  here 
she  would  object  to  further  conversation. 

"Yes,  you  do,"  says  Jane,  "you  see  when  you 
were  a  little  girl." 

"That  is  a  long  time  ago,  sweetheart,"  says 
Wendy.  "Ah  me,  how  time  flies !" 

"Does  it  fly,"  asks  the  artful  child,  "the  way 
you  flew  when  you  were  a  little  girl1?" 

"The  way  I  flew !  Do  you  know,  Jane,  I  some- 
times wonder  whether  I  ever  did  really  fly." 

"Yes,  you  did." 

"The  dear  old  days  when  I  could  fly !" 

"Why  can't  you  fly  now,  mother?" 

"Because  I  am  grown  up,  dearest.  When  peo- 
ple grow  up  they  forget  the  way." 

"Why  do  they  forget  the  way?" 

"Because  they  are  no  longer  gay  and  innocent 
and  heartless.  It  is  only  the  gay  and  innocent  and 
heartless  who  can  fly." 

"What  is  gay  and  innocent  and  heartless?  I 
do  wish  I  was  gay  and  innocent  and  heartless." 

Or  perhaps  Wendy  admits  she  does  see  some- 
214 


WHEN  WENDY  GREW  UP 

thing.     "I  do  believe,"  she  says,  "that  it  is  this 
nursery!" 

"I  do  believe  it  is!"  says  Jane.    "Go  on." 

They  are  now  embarked  on  the  great  adventure 
of  the  night  when  Peter  flew  in  looking  for  his 
shadow. 

"The  foolish  fellow,"  says  Wendy,  "tried  to 
stick  it  on  with  soap,  and  when  he  could  not  he 
cried,  and  that  woke  me,  and  I  sewed  it  on  for 
him." 

"You  have  missed  a  bit,"  interrupts  Jane,  who 
now  knows  the  story  better  than  her  mother. 
"When  you  saw  him  sitting  on  the  floor  crying 
what  did  you  say*?" 

"I  sat  up  in  bed  and  I  said,  'Boy,  why  are  you 
crying?'  " 

"Yes,  that  was  it,"  says  Jane,  with  a  big  breath. 

"And  then  he  flew  us  all  away  to  the  Never- 
land  and  the  fairies  and  the  pirates  and  the  red- 
skins and  the  mermaids'  lagoon,  and  the  home 
under  the  ground,  and  the  little  house." 

"Yes!  which  did  you  like  best  of  all?" 

"I  think  I  liked  the  home  under  the  ground 
best  of  all." 

"Yes,  so  do  I.  What  was  the  last  thing  Peter 
ever  said  to  you*?" 

"The  last  thing  he  ever  said  to  me  was,  'Just 
always  be  waiting  for  me,  and  then  some  night 
you  will  hear  me  crowing.' ' 

215 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

"Yes!" 

"But,  alas,  he  forgot  all  about  me."  Wendy 
&aid  it  with  a  smile.  She  was  as  grown  up  as  that. 

"What  did  his  crow  sound  like?"  Jane  asked 
one  evening. 

"It  was  like  this,"  Wendy  said,  trying  to  imi- 
tate Peter's  crow. 

"No,  it  wasn't,"  Jane  said  gravely,  "it  was  like 
this" ;  and  she  did  it  ever  so  much  better  than  her 
mother. 

Wendy  was  a  little  startled.  "My  darling, 
how  can  you  know1?" 

"I  often  hear  it  when  I  am  sleeping,"  Jane  said. 

"Ah  yes,  many  girls  hear  it  when  they  are  sleep- 
ing, but  I  was  the  only  one  who  heard  it  awake." 

"Lucky  you !"  said  Jane. 

And  then  one  night  came  the  tragedy.  It  was 
the  spring  of  the  year,  and  the  story  had  been  told 
for  the  night,  and  Jane  was  now  asleep  in  her  bed. 
Wendy  was  sitting  on  the  floor,  very  close  to  the 
fire  so  as  to  see  to  darn,  for  there  was  no  other  light 
in  the  nursery;  and  while  she  sat  darning  she 
heard  a  crow.  Then  the  window  blew  open  as  of 
old,  and  Peter  dropped  on  the  floor. 

He  was  exactly  the  same  as  ever,  and  Wendy 
saw  at  once  that  he  still  had  all  his  first  teeth. 

He  was  a  little  boy,  and  she  was  grown  up. 
She  huddled  by  the  fire  not  daring  to  move,  help- 
less and  guilty,  a  big  woman. 

216 


PETER   AND  JANE 


WHEN  WENDY  GREW  UP 

"Hullo,  Wendy,"  he  said,  not  noticing  any  dif- 
ference, for  he  was  thinking  chiefly  of  himself; 
and  in  the  dim  light  her  white  dress  might  have 
been  the  nightgown  in  which  he  had  seen  her  first. 

"Hullo,  Peter,"  she  replied  faintly,  squeezing 
herself  as  small  as  possible.  Something  inside  her 
was  crying  "Woman,  woman,  let  go  of  me." 

"Hullo,  where  is  John*?"  he  asked,  suddenly 
missing  the  third  bed. 

"John  is  not  here  now,"  she  gasped. 

"Is  Michael  asleep*?"  he  asked,  with  a  careless 
glance  at  Jane. 

"Yes,"  she  answered;  and  now  she  felt  that 
she  was  untrue  to  Jane  as  well  as  to  Peter. 

"That  is  not  Michael,"  she  said  quickly,  lest  a 
judgment  should  fall  on  her. 

Peter  looked.    "Hullo,  is  it  a  new  one?" 

"Yes." 

"Boy  or  girl?" 

"Girl." 

Now  surely  he  would  understand;  but  not  a 
bit  of  it. 

"Peter,"  she  said,  faltering,  "are  you  expecting 
me  to  fly  away  with  you?" 

"Of  course;  that  is  why  I  have  come."  He 
added  a  little  sternly,  "Have  you  forgotten  that 
this  is  spring-cleaning  time?" 

She  knew  it  was  useless  to  say  that  he  had  let 
many  spring-cleaning  times  pass. 

217 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

"I  can't  come,"  she  said  apologetically,  "I  have 
forgotten  how  to  fly." 

"I'll  soon  teach  you  again." 

"O,  Peter,  don't  waste  the  fairy  dust  on  me." 

She  had  risen,  and  now  at  last  a  fear  assailed 
him.  "What  is  it?"  he  cried,  shrinking. 

"I  will  turn  up  the  light,"  she  said,  "and  then 
you  can  see  for  yourself." 

For  almost  the  only  time  in  his  life  that  I  know 
of,  Peter  was  afraid.  "Don't  turn  up  the  light," 
he  cried. 

She  let  her  hands  play  in  the  hair  of  the  tragic 
boy.  She  was  not  a  little  girl  heart-broken  about 
him ;  she  was  a  grown  woman  smiling  at  it  all,  but 
they  were  wet  smiles. 

Then  she  turned  up  the  light,  and  Peter  saw. 
He  gave  a  cry  of  pain;  and  when  the  tall  beautiful 
creature  stooped  to  lift  him  in  her  arms  he  drew 
back  sharply. 

"What  is  it1?"  he  cried  again. 

She  had  to  tell  him. 

"I  am  old,  Peter.  I  am  ever  so  much  more  than 
twenty.  I  grew  up  long  ago." 

"You  promised  not  to!" 

"I  couldn't  help  it.  I  am  a  married  woman, 
Peter." 

"No,  you're  not." 

"Yes,  and  the  little  girl  in  the  bed  is  my  baby." 

"No,  she's  not." 

218 


WHEN  WENDY  GREW  UP 

But  he  supposed  she  was;  and  he  took  a  step 
towards  the  sleeping  child  with  his  fist  upraised. 
Of  course  he  did  not  strike  her.  He  sat  down  on 
the  floor  and  sobbed,  and  Wendy  did  not  know 
how  to  comfort  him,  though  she  could  have  done 
it  so  easily  once.  She  was  only  a  woman  now, 
and  she  ran  out  of  the  room  to  try  to  think. 

Peter  continued  to  cry,  and  soon  his  sobs  woke 
Jane.  She  sat  up  in  bed,  and  was  interested  at 
once. 

"Boy,"  she  said,  "why  are  you  crying?" 

Peter  rose  and  bowed  to  her,  and  she  bowed  to 
him  from  the  bed. 

"Hullo,"  he  said. 

"Hullo,"  said  Jane. 

"My  name  is  Peter  Pan,"  he  told  her. 

"Yes,  I  know." 

"I  came  back  for  my  mother,"  he  explained, 
"to  take  her  to  the  Neverland." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  Jane  said,  "I  been  waiting  for 
you." 

When  Wendy  returned  diffidently  she  found 
Peter  sitting  on  the  bed-post  crowing  gloriously, 
while  Jane  in  her  nighty  was  flying  round  the 
room  in  solemn  ecstasy. 

"She  is  my  mother,"  Peter  explained;  and  Jane 
descended  and  stood  by  his  side,  with  the  look  on 
her  face  that  he  liked  to  see  on  ladies  when  they 
gazed  at  him. 

219 


PETER  AND  WENDY 

"He  does  so  need  a  mother,"  Jane  said. 

"Yes,  I  know,"  Wendy  admitted,  rather  for- 
lornly; "no  one  knows  it  so  well  as  I." 

"Good-bye,"  said  Peter  to  Wendy;  and  he  rose 
in  the  air,  and  the  shameless  Jane  rose  with  him; 
it  was  already  her  easiest  way  of  moving  about. 

Wendy  rushed  to  the  window. 

"No,  no !"  she  cried. 

"It  is  just  for  spring-cleaning  time,"  Jane  said; 
"he  wants  me  always  to  do  his  spring  cleaning." 

"If  only  I  could  go  with  you !"  Wendy  sighed. 

"You  see  you  can't  fly,"  said  Jane. 

Of  course  in  the  end  Wendy  let  them  fly  away 
together.  Our  last  glimpse  of  her  shows  her  at 
the  window,  watching  them  receding  into  the  sky 
until  they  were  as  small  as  stars. 

As  you  look  at  Wendy  you  may  see  her  hair  be- 
coming white,  and  her  figure  little  again,  for  all 
this  happened  long  ago.  Jane  is  now  a  common 
grown-up,  with  a  daughter  called  Margaret;  and 
every  spring-cleaning  time,  except  when  he  for- 
gets, Peter  comes  for  Margaret  and  takes  her  to 
the  Neverland,  where  she  tells  him  stories  about 
himself,  to  which  he  listens  eagerly.  When  Mar- 
garet grows  up  she  will  have  a  daughter,  who  is  to 
be  Peter's  mother  in  turn;  and  so  it  will  go  on,  so 
long  as  children  are  gay  and  innocent  and  heartless. 

THE    END 
220 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

BY  HER  SON,  J.  M.  BARRIE 


TO    THE    MEMORY    OF 

MY  SISTER  JANE  ANN 


MARGARET  OGILVY 


CHAPTER   I 

HOW    MY    MOTHER    GOT    HER    SOFT    FACE 

ON  the  day  I  was  born  we  bought  six  hair- 
bottomed  chairs,  and  in  our  little  house  it 
was  an  event,  the  first  great  victory  in  a  woman's 
long  campaign ;  how  they  had  been  laboured  for, 
the  pound-note  and  the  thirty  threepenny  bits  they 
cost,  what  anxiety  there  was  about  the  purchase, 
the  show  they  made  in  possession  of  the  west 
room,  my  father's  unnatural  coolness  when  he 
brought  them  in  (but  his  face  was  white)  —  I  so 
often  heard  the  tale  afterwards,  and  shared  as  boy 
and  man  in  so  many  similar  triumphs,  that  the 
coming  of  the  chairs  seems  to  be  something  I  re- 
member, as  if  I  had  jumped  out  of  bed  on  that 
first  day,  and  run  ben  to  see  how  they  looked.  I 
am  sure  my  mother's  feet  were  ettling  to  be  ben 
long  before  they  could  be  trusted,  and  that  the 
moment  after  she  was  left  alone  with  me  she  was 
discovered  barefooted  in  the  west  room,  doctoring 
a  scar  (which  she  had  been  the  first  to  detect)  on 
one  of  the  chairs,  or  sitting  on  them  regally  or 
withdrawing  and  re-opening  the  door  suddenly  to 
take  the  six  by  surprise.  And  then,  I  think,  a 

225 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

shawl  was  flung  over  her  (it  is  strange  to  me  to 
think  it  was  not  I  who  ran  after  her  with  the 
shawl),  and  she  was  escorted  sternly  back  to  bed 
and  reminded  that  she  had  promised  not  to  budge, 
to  which  her  reply  was  probably  that  she  had  been 
gone  but  an  instant,  and  the  implication  that  there- 
fore she  had  not  been  gone  at  all.  Thus  was  one 
little  bit  of  her  revealed  to  me  at  once :  I  wonder 
if  I  took  note  of  it.  Neighbours  came  in  to  see 
the  boy  and  the  chairs.  I  wonder  if  she  deceived 
me  when  she  affected  to  think  that  there  were 
others  like  us,  or  whether  I  saw  through  her  from 
the  first,  she  was  so  easily  seen  through.  When 
she  seemed  to  agree  with  them  that  it  would  be 
impossible  to  give  me  a  college  education,  was  I 
so  easily  taken  in,  or  did  I  know  already  what  am- 
bitions burned  behind  that  dear  face  ?  when  they 
spoke  of  the  chairs  as  the  goal  quickly  reached, 
was  I  such  a  newcomer  that  her  timid  lips  must 
say  "  They  are  but  a  beginning "  before  I  heard 
the  words  *?  And  when  we  were  left  together,  did 
I  laugh  at  the  great  things  that  were  in  her  mind, 
or  had  she  to  whisper  them  to  me  first,  and  then 
did  I  put  my  arm  round  her  and  tell  her  that  I 
would  help  ?  Thus  it  was  for  such  a  long  time  : 
it  is  strange  to  me  to  feel  that  it  was  not  so  from 
the  beginning. 

It  is  all  guess-work  for  six  years,  and  she  whom 
I  see  in  them  is  the  woman  who  came  suddenly 

226 


HER   SOFT   FACE 

into  view  when  they  were  at  an  end.  Her  timid 
lips  I  have  said,  but  they  were  not  timid  then,  and 
when  I  knew  her  the  timid  lips  had  come.  The 
soft  face  —  they  say  the  face  was  not  so  soft  then. 
The  shawl  that  was  flung  over  her  —  we  had  not 
begun  to  hunt  her  with  a  shawl,  nor  to  make  our 
bodies  a  screen  between  her  and  the  draughts,  nor 
to  creep  into  her  room  a  score  of  times  in  the 
night  to  stand  looking  at  her  as  she  slept.  We 
did  not  see  her  becoming  little  then,  nor  sharply 
turn  our  heads  when  she  said  wonderingly  how 
small  her  arms  had  grown.  In  her  happiest  mo- 
ments—  and  never  was  a  happier  woman — her 
mouth  did  not  of  a  sudden  begin  to  twitch,  and 
tears  to  lie  on  the  mute  blue  eyes  in  which  I  have 
read  all  I  know  and  would  ever  care  to  write. 
For  when  you  looked  into  my  mother's  eyes  you 
knew,  as  if  He  had  told  you,  why  God  sent  her 
into  the  world  —  it  was  to  open  the  minds  of  all 
who  looked  to  beautiful  thoughts.  And  that  is 
the  beginning  and  end  of  literature.  Those  eyes 
that  I  cannot  see  until  I  was  six  years  old  have 
guided  me  through  life,  and  I  pray  God  they  may 
remain  my  only  earthly  judge  to  the  last.  They 
were  never  more  my  guide  than  when  I  helped  to 
put  her  to  earth,  not  whimpering  because  my 
mother  had  been  taken  away  after  seventy-six 
glorious  years  of  life,  but  exulting  in  her  even 
at  the  grave. 

227 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

She  had  a  son  who  was  far  away  at  school.  I 
remember  very  little  about  him,  only  that  he  was 
a  merry-faced  boy  who  ran  like  a  squirrel  up  a 
tree  and  shook  the  cherries  into  my  lap.  When 
he  was  thirteen  and  I  was  half  his  age  the  terrible 
news  came,  and  I  have  been  told  the  face  of  my 
mother  was  awful  in  its  calmness  as  she  set  off  to 
get  between  Death  and  her  boy.  We  trooped 
with  her  down  the  brae  to  the  wooden  station,  and 
I  think  I  was  envying  her  the  journey  in  the  mys- 
terious waggons;  I  know  we  played  around  her, 
proud  of  our  right  to  be  there,  but  I  do  not  recall 
it,  I  only  speak  from  hearsay.  Her  ticket  was 
taken,  she  had  bidden  us  good-bye  with  that  fight- 
ing face  which  I  cannot  see,  and  then  my  father 
came  out  of  the  telegraph-office  and  said  huskily 
"  He's  gone  !  "  Then  we  turned  very  quietly  and 
went  home  again  up  the  little  brae.  But  I  speak 
from  hearsay  no  longer;  I  knew  my  mother  for 
ever  now. 

That  is  how  she  got  her  soft  face  and  her  pa- 
thetic ways  and  her  large  charity,  and  why  other 
mothers  ran  to  her  when  they  had  lost  a  child. 
"  Dinna  greet,  poor  Janet,"  she  would  say  to  them, 
and  they  would  answer,  "  Ah,  Margaret,  but  you're 
greeting  yourseP."  Margaret  Ogilvy  had  been  her 
maiden  name,  and  after  the  Scotch  custom  she  was 
still  Margaret  Ogilvy  to  her  old  friends.  Margaret 
Ogilvy  I  loved  to  name  her.  Often  when  I  was  a 

228 


HER  SOFT   FACE 

boy,  "  Margaret  Ogilvy,  are  you  there  ?  "  I  would 
call  up  the  stair. 

She  was  always  delicate  from  that  hour,  and  for 
many  months  she  was  very  ill.  I  have  heard  that 
the  first  thing  she  expressed  a  wish  to  see  was  the 
christening  robe,  and  she  looked  long  at  it  and 
then  turned  her  face  to  the  wall.  That  was  what 
made  me  as  a  boy  think  of  it  always  as  the  robe  in 
which  he  was  christened,  but  I  knew  later  that  we 
had  all  been  christened  in  it,  from  the  oldest  of 
the  family  to  the  youngest,  between  whom  stood 
twenty  years.  Hundreds  of  other  children  were 
christened  in  it  also,  such  robes  being  then  a  rare 
possession,  and  the  lending  of  ours  among  my 
mother's  glories.  It  was  carried  carefully  from 
house  to  house,  as  if  it  were  itself  a  child;  my 
mother  made  much  of  it,  smoothed  it  out,  petted 
it,  smiled  to  it  before  putting  it  into  the  arms  of 
those  to  whom  it  was  being  lent ;  she  was  in  our 
pew  to  see  it  borne  magnificently  (something  in- 
side it  now)  down  the  aisle  to  the  pulpit  side, 
when  a  stir  of  expectancy  went  through  the  church 
and  we  kicked  each  other's  feet  beneath  the  book- 
board  but  were  reverent  in  the  face ;  and  however 
the  child  might  behave,  laughing  brazenly  or  skirl- 
ing to  its  mother's  shame,  and  whatever  the  father 
as  he  held  it  up  might  do,  look  doited  probably 
and  bow  at  the  wrong  time,  the  christening  robe 
of  long  experience  helped  them  through.  And 

229 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

when  it  was  brought  back  to  her  she  took  it  in  her 
arms  as  softly  as  if  it  might  be  asleep,  and  uncon- 
sciously pressed  it  to  her  breast :  there  was  never 
anything  in  the  house  that  spoke  to  her  quite  so 
eloquently  as  that  little  white  robe ;  it  was  the  one 
of  her  children  that  always  remained  a  baby.  And 
she  had  not  made  it  herself,  which  was  the  most 
wonderful  thing  about  it  to  me,  for  she  seemed  to 
have  made  all  other  things.  All  the  clothes  in  the 
house  were  of  her  making,  and  you  don't  know 
her  in  the  least  if  you  think  they  were  out  of  the 
fashion;  she  turned  them  and  made  them  new 
again,  she  beat  them  and  made  them  new  again, 
and  then  she  coaxed  them  into  being  new  again 
just  for  the  last  time,  she  let  them  out  and  took 
them  in  and  put  on  new  braid,  and  added  a  piece 
up  the  back,  and  thus  they  passed  from  one  mem- 
ber of  the  family  to  another  until  they  reached  the 
youngest,  and  even  when  we  were  done  with  them 
they  reappeared  as  something  else.  In  the  fashion ! 
I  must  come  back  to  this.  Never  was  a  woman 
with  such  an  eye  for  it.  She  had  no  fashion-plates ; 
she  did  not  need  them.  The  minister's  wife  (a 
cloak),  the  banker's  daughters  (the  new  sleeve)  — 
they  had  but  to  pass  our  window  once,  and  the 
scalp,  so  to  speak,  was  in  my  mother's  hands.  Ob- 
serve her  rushing,  scissors  in  hand,  thread  in  mouth, 
to  the  drawers  where  her  daughters'  Sabbath  clothes 
were  kept.  Or  go  to  church  next  Sunday,  and 

230 


HER  SOFT   FACE 

watch  a  certain  family  filing  in,  the  boy  lifting  his 
legs  high  to  show  off  his  new  boots,  but  all  the 
others  demure,  especially  the  timid,  unobservant 
looking  little  woman  in  the  rear  of  them.  If  you 
were  the  minister's  wife  that  day  or  the  banker's 
daughters  you  would  have  got  a  shock.  But  she 
bought  the  christening  robe,  and  when  I  used  to 
ask  why,  she  would  beam  and  look  conscious,  and 
say  she  wanted  to  be  extravagant  once.  And  she 
told  me,  still  smiling,  that  the  more  a  woman  was 
given  to  stitching  and  making  things  for  herself, 
the  greater  was  her  passionate  desire  now  and 
again  to  rush  to  the  shops  and  "  be  foolish."  The 
christening  robe  with  its  pathetic  frills  is  over  half 
a  century  old  now,  and  has  begun  to  droop  a  little, 
like  a  daisy  whose  time  is  past,  but  it  is  as  fondly 
kept  together  as  ever :  I  saw  it  in  use  again  only 
the  other  day. 

My  mother  lay  in  bed  with  the  christening  robe 
beside  her,  and  I  peeped  in  many  times  at  the 
door  and  then  went  to  the  stair  and  sat  on  it  and 
sobbed.  I  know  not  if  it  was  that  first  day,  or 
many  days  afterwards,  that  there  came  to  me  my 
sister,  the  daughter  my  mother  loved  the  best,  yes, 
more  I  am  sure  even  than  she  loved  me,  whose 
great  glory  she  has  been  since  I  was  six  years  old. 
This  sister,  who  was  then  passing  out  of  her  teens, 
came  to  me  with  a  very  anxious  face  and  wring- 
ing her  hands,  and  she  told  me  to  go  ben  to  my 

231 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

mother  and  say  to  her  that  she  still  had  another 
boy.  I  went  ben  excitedly,  but  the  room  was 
dark,  and  when  I  heard  the  door  shut  and  no 
sound  come  from  the  bed  I  was  afraid,  and  I  stood 
still.  I  suppose  I  was  breathing  hard,  or  perhaps 
I  was  crying,  for  after  a  time  I  heard  a  listless 
voice  that  had  never  been  listless  before  say,  "  Is 
that  you  ?  "  I  think  the  tone  hurt  me,  for  I  made 
no  answer,  and  then  the  voice  said  more  anxiously, 
"  Is  that  you  *?  "  again.  I  thought  it  was  the  dead 
boy  she  was  speaking  to,  and  I  said  in  a  little 
lonely  voice,  "  No,  it's  no  him,  it's  just  me."  Then 
I  heard  a  cry,  and  my  mother  turned  in  bed,  and 
though  it  was  dark  I  knew  that  she  was  holding 
out  her  arms. 

After  that  I  sat  a  great  deal  in  her  bed  trying  to 
make  her  forget  him,  which  was  my  crafty  way 
of  playing  physician,  and  if  I  saw  any  one  out  of 
doors  do  something  that  made  the  others  laugh  I 
immediately  hastened  to  that  dark  room  and  did 
it  before  her.  I  suppose  I  was  an  odd  little  figure; 
I  have  been  told  that  my  anxiety  to  brighten  her 
gave  my  face  a  strained  look  and  put  a  tremor 
into  the  joke  (I  would  stand  on  my  head  in  the 
bed,  my  feet  against  the  wall,  and  then  cry  ex- 
citedly, "Are  you  laughing,  mother1?  ")  —  and  per- 
haps what  made  her  laugh  was  something  I  was 
unconscious  of,  but  she  did  laugh  suddenly  now 
and  then,  whereupon  I  screamed  exultantly  to 

232 


HER   SOFT   FACE 

that  dear  sister,  who  was  ever  in  waiting,  to  come 
and  see  the  sight,  but  by  the  time  she  came  the 
soft  face  was  wet  again.  Thus  I  was  deprived 
of  some  of  my  glory,  and  I  remember  once  only 
making  her  laugh  before  witnesses.  I  kept  a  rec> 
ord  of  her  laughs  on  a  piece  of  paper,  a  stroke  for 
each,  and  it  was  my  custom  to  show  this  proudly 
to  the  doctor  every  morning.  There  were  five 
strokes  the  first  time  I  slipped  it  into  his  hand, 
and  when  their  meaning  was  explained  to  htm,  he 
laughed  so  boisterously  that  I  cried,  "  I  wish  that 
was  one  of  hers !  "  Then  he  was  sympathetic,  and 
asked  me  if  my  mother  had  seen  the  paper  yet, 
and  when  I  shook  my  head  he  said  that  if  I  showed 
it  to  her  now  and  told  her  that  these  were  her  five 
laughs  he  thought  I  might  win  another.  I  had 
less  confidence,  but  he  was  the  mysterious  man 
whom  you  ran  for  in  the  dead  of  night  (you  flung 
sand  at  his  window  to  waken  him,  and  if  it  was 
only  toothache  he  extracted  the  tooth  through  the 
open  window,  but  when  it  was  something  sterner 
he  was  with  you  in  the  dark  square  at  once,  like 
a  man  who  slept  in  his  topcoat),  so  I  did  as  he 
bade  me,  and  not  only  did  she  laugh  then  but 
again  when  I  put  the  laugh  down,  so  that  though 
it  was  really  one  laugh  with  a  tear  in  the  middle 
I  counted  it  as  two. 

It  was  doubtless  that  same  sister  who  told  me 
not  to  sulk  when  my  mother  lay  thinking  of  him, 

233 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

but  to  try  instead  to  get  her  to  talk  about  him.  I 
did  not  see  how  this  could  make  her  the  merry 
mother  she  used  to  be,  but  I  was  told  that  if  I 
could  not  do  it  nobody  could,  and  this  made  me 
eager  to  begin.  At  first,  they  say,  I  was  often 
jealous,  stopping  her  fond  memories  with  the  cry, 
"  Do  you  mind  nothing  about  me  ?  "  but  that  did 
not  last ;  its  place  was  taken  by  an  intense  desire 
(again,  I  think,  my  sister  must  have  breathed  it 
into  life)  to  become  so  like  him  that  even  my 
mother  should  not  see  the  difference,  and  many 
and  artful  were  the  questions  I  put  to  that  end. 
Then  I  practised  in  secret,  but  after  a  whole  week 
had  passed  I  was  still  rather  like  myself.  He  had 
such  a  cheery  way  of  whistling,  she  had  told  me, 
it  had  always  brightened  her  at  her  work  to  hear 
him  whistling,  and  when  he  whistled  he  stood 
with  his  legs  apart,  and  his  hands  in  the  pockets 
of  his  knickerbockers.  I  decided  to  trust  to  this, 
so  one  day  after  I  had  learned  his  whistle  (every 
boy  of  enterprise  invents  a  whistle  of  his  own) 
from  boys  who  had  been  his  comrades,  I  secretly 
put  on  a  suit  of  his  clothes,  dark  grey  they  were, 
with  little  spots,  and  they  fitted  me  many  years 
afterwards,  and  thus  disguised  I  slipped,  unknown 
to  the  others,  into  my  mother's  room.  Quaking, 
I  doubt  not,  yet  so  pleased,  I  stood  still  until  she 
saw  me,  and  then  —  how  it  must  have  hurt  her! 
"  Listen ! "  I  cried  in  a  glow  of  triumph,  and  I 

234 


HER   SOFT   FACE 

stretched  my  legs  wide  apart  and  plunged  my 
hands  into  the  pockets  of  my  knickerbockers, 
and  began  to  whistle. 

She  lived  twenty-nine  years  after  his  death  - 
such  active  years,  until  toward  the  end,  that  you 
never  knew  where  she  was  unless  you  took  hold  of 
her — and  though  she  was  frail  henceforth  and  ever 
growing  frailer,  her  housekeeping  again  became 
famous,  so  that  brides  called  as  a  matter  of  course 
to  watch  her  ca'ming  and  sanding  and  stitching : 
there  are  old  people  still,  one  or  two,  to  tell  with 
wonder  in  their  eyes  how  she  could  bake  twenty- 
four  bannocks  in  the  hour,  and  not  a  chip  in  one 
of  them.  And  how  many  she  gave  away,  how 
much  she  gave  away  of  all  she  had,  and  what 
pretty  ways  she  had  of  giving  it !  Her  face  beamed 
and  rippled  with  mirth  as  before,  and  her  laugh, 
that  I  had  tried  so  hard  to  force,  came  running 
home  again.  I  have  heard  no  such  laugh  as  hers 
save  from  merry  children;  the  laughter  of  most 
of  us  ages,  and  wears  out  with  the  body,  but  hers 
remained  gleeful  to  the  last,  as  if  it  were  born 
afresh  every  morning.  There  was  always  some- 
thing of  the  child  in  her,  and  her  laugh  was  its 
voice,  as  eloquent  of  the  past  to  me  as  was  the 
christening  robe  to  her.  But  I  had  not  made  her 
forget  the  bit  of  her  that  was  dead ;  in  those  nine 
and  twenty  years  he  was  not  removed  one  day 
farther  from  her.  Many  a  time  she  fell  asleep 

235 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

speaking  to  him,  and  even  while  she  slept  her  lips 
moved  and  she  smiled  as  if  he  had  come  back  to 
her,  and  when  she  woke  he  might  vanish  so  sud- 
denly that  she  started  up  bewildered  and  looked 
about  her,  and  then  said  slowly,  "My  David's 
dead ! "  or  perhaps  he  remained  long  enough 
to  whisper  why  he  must  leave  her  now,  and 
then  she  lay  silent  with  filmy  eyes.  When  I 
became  a  man  and  he  was  still  a  boy  of  thirteen, 
I  wrote  a  little  paper  called  "  Dead  this  Twenty 
Years,"  which  was  about  a  similar  tragedy  in  an- 
other woman's  life,  and  it  is  the  only  thing  I  have 
written  that  she  never  spoke  about,  not  even  to 
that  daughter  she  loved  the  best.  No  one  ever 
spoke  of  it  to  her,  or  asked  her  if  she  had  read  it : 
one  does  not  ask  a  mother  if  she  knows  that  there 
is  a  little  coffin  in  the  house.  She  read  many 
times  the  book  in  which  it  is  printed,  but  when 
she  came  to  that  chapter  she  would  put  her  hands 
to  her  heart  or  even  over  her  ears. 


CHAPTER   II 

WHAT  SHE  HAD   BEEN 

WHAT  she  had  been,  what  I  should  be,  these  were 
the  two  great  subjects  between  us  in  my  boyhood, 
and  while  we  discussed  the  one  we  were  deciding 
the  other,  though  neither  of  us  knew  it. 

Before  I  reached  my  tenth  year  a  giant  entered 
my  native  place  in  the  night,  and  we  woke  to 
find  him  in  possession.  He  transformed  it  into  a 
new  town  at  a  rate  with  which  we  boys  only  could 
keep  up,  for  as  fast  as  he  built  dams  we  made 
rafts  to  sail  in  them;  he  knocked  down  houses, 
and  there  we  were  crying,  "  Pilly ! "  among  the 
ruins ;  he  dug  trenches,  and  we  jumped  them ;  we 
had  to  be  dragged  by  the  legs  from  beneath  his 
engines;  he  sunk  wells,  and  in  we  went.  But 
though  there  were  never  circumstances  to  which 
boys  could  not  adapt  themselves  in  half  an  hour, 
older  folk  are  slower  in  the  uptake,  and  I  am  sure 
they  stood  and  gaped  at  the  changes  so  suddenly 
being  worked  in  our  midst,  and  scarce  knew  their 
way  home  now  in  the  dark.  Where  had  been 
formerly  but  the  click  of  the  shuttle  was  soon  the 

237 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

roar  of "  power,"  hand-looms  were  pushed  into  a 
corner  as  a  room  is  cleared  for  a  dance,  every 
morning  at  half-past  five  the  town  was  awakened 
with  a  yell,  and  from  a  chimney-stalk  that  rose 
high  into  our  caller  air  the  conqueror  waved  for 
evermore  his  flag  of  smoke.  Another  era  had 
dawned,  new  customs,  new  fashions  sprang  into 
life,  all  as  lusty  as  if  they  had  been  born  at  twenty- 
one;  as  quickly  as  two  people  may  exchange 
seats,  the  daughter,  till  now  but  a  knitter  of  stock- 
ings, became  the  breadwinner,  he  who  had  been 
the  breadwinner  sat  down  to  the  knitting  of  stock- 
ings ;  what  had  been  yesterday  a  nest  of  weavers 
was  to-day  a  town  of  girls. 

I  am  not  of  those  who  would  fling  stones  at 
the  change;  it  is  something,  surely,  that  backs 
are  no  longer  prematurely  bent;  you  may  no 
more  look  through  dim  panes  of  glass  at  the  aged 
poor  weaving  tremulously  for  their  little  bit  of 
ground  in  the  cemetery.  Rather  are  their  work- 
ing years  too  few  now,  not  because  they  will  it  so, 
but  because  it  is  with  youth  that  the  power-looms 
must  be  fed.  Well,  this  teaches  them  to  make 
provision,  and  they  have  the  means  as  they  never 
had  before.  Not  in  batches  are  boys  now  sent  to 
college,  the  half-dozen  a  year  have  dwindled  to 
one,  doubtless  because  in  these  days  they  can 
begin  to  draw  wages  as  they  step  out  of  their  four- 
teenth year.  Here  assuredly  there  is  loss,  but  all 

238 


WHAT   SHE   HAD   BEEN 

the  losses  would  be  but  a  pebble  in  a  sea  of  gain 
were  it  not  for  this,  that  with  so  many  of  the 
family,  young  mothers  among  them,  working  in 
the  factories,  home  life  is  not  so  beautiful  as  it 
was.  So  much  of  what  is  great  in  Scotland  has 
sprung  from  the  closeness  of  the  family  ties;  it  is 
there  I  sometimes  fear  that  my  country  is  being 
struck.  That  we  are  all  being  reduced  to  one 
dead  level,  that  "  character  "  abounds  no  more  and 
life  itself  is  less  interesting,  such  things  I  have 
read,  but  I  do  not  believe  them.  I  have  even 
seen  them  given  as  my  reason  for  writing  of  a  past 
time,  and  in  that  at  least  there  is  no  truth.  In  our 
little  town,  which  is  a  sample  of  many,  life  is  as 
interesting,  as  pathetic,  as  joyous  as  ever  it  was; 
no  group  of  weavers  was  better  to  look  at  or  think 
about  than  the  rivulet  of  winsome  girls  that  over- 
runs our  streets  every  time  the  sluice  is  raised,  the 
comedy  of  summer  evenings  and  winter  firesides 
is  played  with  the  old  zest,  and  every  window- 
blind  is  the  curtain  of  a  romance.  Once  the  lights 
of  a  little  town  are  lit,  who  could  ever  hope  to  tell 
all  its  story,  or  the  story  of  a  single  wynd  in  it  *? 
And  who  looking  at  lighted  windows  needs  to 
turn  to  books  ?  The  reason  my  books  deal  with 
the  past  instead  of  with  the  life  I  myself  have 
known  is  simply  this,  that  I  soon  grow  tired  of 
writing  tales  unless  I  can  see  a  little  girl,  of  whom 
my  mother  has  told  me,  wandering  confidently 

239 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

through  the  pages.  Such  a  grip  has  her  memory 
of  her  girlhood  had  upon  me  since  I  was  a  boy 
of  six. 

Those  innumerable  talks  with  her  made  her 
youth  as  vivid  to  me  as  my  own,  and  so  much 
more  quaint,  for,  to  a  child,  the  oddest  of  things, 
and  the  most  richly  coloured  picture-book,  is  that 
his  mother  was  once  a  child  also,  and  the  contrast 
between  what  she  is  and  what  she  was  is  perhaps 
the  source  of  all  humour.  My  mother's  father, 
the  one  hero  of  her  life,  died  nine  years  before  I 
was  born,  and  I  remember  this  with  bewilderment, 
so  familiarly  does  the  weather-beaten  mason's  fig- 
ure rise  before  me  from  the  old  chair  on  which  I 
was  nursed  and  now  write  my  books.  On  the 
surface  he  is  as  hard  as  the  stone  on  which  he 
chiselled,  and  his  face  is  dyed  red  by  its  dust,  he 
is  rounded  in  the  shoulders  and  a  "  hoast "  hunts 
him  ever;  sooner  or  later  that  cough  must  carry 
him  off,  but  until  then  it  shall  not  keep  him  from 
the  quarry,  nor  shall  his  chapped  hands,  as  long  as 
they  can  grasp  the  mell.  It  is  a  night  of  rain  or 
snow,  and  my  mother,  the  little  girl  in  a  pinafore 
who  is  already  his  housekeeper,  has  been  many 
times  to  the  door  to  look  for  him.  At  last  he 
draws  nigh,  hoasting.  Or  I  see  him  setting  off  to 
church,  for  he  was  a  great  "  stoop  "  of  the  Auld 
Licht  kirk,  and  his  mouth  is  very  firm  now  as  if 
there  were  a  case  of  discipline  to  face,  but  on  his 

240 


WHAT   SHE   HAD   BEEN 

way  home  he  is  bowed  with  pity.  Perhaps  his 
little  daughter  who  saw  him  so  stern  an  hour  ago 
does  not  understand  why  he  wrestles  so  long  in 
prayer  to-night,  or  why  when  he  rises  from  his 
knees  he  presses  her  to  him  with  unwonted  ten- 
derness. Or  he  is  in  this  chair  repeating  to  her 
his  favourite  poem,  "  The  Cameronian's  Dream," 
and  at  the  first  lines  so  solemnly  uttered, 

In  a  dream  of  the  night  I  was  wafted  away, 

she  screams  with  excitement,  just  as  I  screamed 
long  afterwards  when  she  repeated  them  in  his 
voice  to  me.  Or  I  watch,  as  from  a  window, 
while  she  sets  off  through  the  long  parks  to  the 
distant  place  where  he  is  at  work,  in  her  hand  a 
flaggon  which  contains  his  dinner.  She  is  singing 
to  herself  and  gleefully  swinging  the  flaggon,  she 
jumps  the  burn  and  proudly  measures  the  jump 
with  her  eye,  but  she  never  dallies  unless  she 
meets  a  baby,  for  she  was  so  fond  of  babies  that 
she  must  hug  each  one  she  met,  but  while  she 
hugged  them  she  also  noted  how  their  robes  were 
cut,  and  afterwards  made  paper  patterns,  which 
she  concealed  jealously,  and  in  the  fullness  of  time 
her  first  robe  for  her  eldest  born  was  fashioned 
from  one  of  these  patterns,  made  when  she  was  in 
her  twelfth  year. 

She  was  eight  when  her  mother's  death  made 
her  mistress  of  the  house  and  mother  to  her  little 

241 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

brother,  and  from  that  time  she  scrubbed  and 
mended  and  baked  and  sewed,  and  argued  with 
the  flesher  about  the  quarter-pound  of  beef  and 
penny  bone  which  provided  dinner  for  two  days 
(but  if  you  think  that  this  was  poverty  you  don't 
know  the  meaning  of  the  word),  and  she  carried 
the  water  from  the  pump,  and  had  her  washing 
days  and  her  ironings  and  a  stocking  always  on 
the  wire  for  odd  moments,  and  gossiped  like  a 
matron  with  the  other  women,  and  humoured  the 
men  with  a  tolerant  smile  —  all  these  things  she 
did  as  a  matter  of  course,  leaping  joyful  from  bed 
in  the  morning  because  there  was  so  much  to  do, 
doing  it  as  thoroughly  and  sedately  as  if  the  brides 
were  already  due  for  a  lesson,  and  then  rushing 
out  in  a  fit  of  childishness  to  play  dumps  or  pa- 
laulays  with  others  of  her  age.  I  see  her  frocks 
lengthening,  though  they  were  never  very  short, 
and  the  games  given  reluctantly  up.  The  horror 
of  my  boyhood  was  that  I  knew  a  time  would 
come  when  I  also  must  give  up  the  games,  and 
how  it  was  to  be  done  I  saw  not  (this  agony  still 
returns  to  me  in  dreams,  when  I  catch  myself 
playing  marbles,  and  look  on  with  cold  dis- 
pleasure) ;  I  felt  that  I  must  continue  playing  in 
secret,  and  I  took  this  shadow  to  her,  when  she 
told  me  her  own  experience,  which  convinced  us 
both  that  we  were  very  like  each  other  inside. 
She  had  discovered  that  work  is  the  best  fun  after 

242 


WHAT   SHE   HAD   BEEN 

all,  and  I  learned  it  in  time,  but  have  my  lapses, 
and  so  had  she. 

I  know  what  was  her  favourite  costume  when 
she  was  at  the  age  that  they  make  heroines  of:  it 
was  a  pale  blue  with  a  pale  blue  bonnet,  the  white 
ribbons  of  which  tied  aggravatingly  beneath  the 
chin,  and  when  questioned  about  this  garb  she 
never  admitted  that  she  looked  pretty  in  it,  but  she 
did  say,  with  blushes  too,  that  blue  was  her  colour, 
and  then  she  might  smile,  as  at  some  memory, 
and  begin  to  tell  us  about  a  man  who — but  it 
ended  there  with  another  smile  which  was  longer 
in  departing.  She  never  said,  indeed  she  denied 
strenuously,  that  she  had  led  the  men  a  dance, 
but  again  the  smile  returned,  and  came  between 
us  and  full  belief.  Yes,  she  had  her  little  vanities; 
when  she  got  the  Mizpah  ring  she  did  carry  that 
finger  in  such  a  way  that  the  most  reluctant  must 
see.  She  was  very  particular  about  her  gloves, 
and  hid  her  boots  so  that  no  other  should  put 
them  on,  and  then  she  forgot  their  hiding-place, 
and  had  suspicions  of  the  one  who  found  them. 
A  good  way  of  enraging  her  was  to  say  that  her 
last  year's  bonnet  would  do  for  this  year  without 
alteration,  or  that  it  would  defy  the  face  of  clay  to 
count  the  number  of  her  shawls.  In  one  of  my 
books  there  is  a  mother  who  is  setting  off  with  her 
son  for  the  town  to  which  he  had  been  called  as 
minister,  and  she  pauses  on  the  threshold  to  ask 

243 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

him  anxiously  if  he  thinks  her  bonnet  "  sets  "  her. 
A  reviewer  said  she  acted  thus,  not  because  she 
cared  how  she  looked,  but  for  the  sake  of  her  son. 
This,  I  remember,  amused  my  mother  very  much. 
I  have  seen  many  weary  on-dings  of  snow,  but 
the  one  I  seem  to  recollect  best  occurred  nearly 
twenty  years  before  I  was  born.  It  was  at  the 
time  of  my  mother's  marriage  to  one  who  proved 
a  most  loving  as  he  was  always  a  well-loved  hus- 
band, a  man  I  am  very  proud  to  be  able  to  call 
my  father.  I  know  not  for  how  many  days  the 
snow  had  been  falling,  but  a  day  came  when  the 
people  lost  heart  and  would  make  no  more  gullies 
through  it,  and  by  next  morning  to  do  so  was 
impossible,  they  could  not  fling  the  snow  high 
enough.  Its  back  was  against  every  door  when 
Sunday  came,  and  none  ventured  out  save  a  val- 
iant few,  who  buffeted  their  way  into  my  mother's 
home  to  discuss  her  predicament,  for  unless  she 
was  "cried"  in  the  church  that  day  she  might 
not  be  married  for  another  week,  and  how  could 
she  be  cried  with  the  minister  a  field  away  and 
the  church  buried  to  the  waist"?  For  hours 
they  talked,  and  at  last  some  men  started  for  the 
church,  which  was  several  hundred  yards  distant. 
Three  of  them  found  a  window,  and  forcing  a 
passage  through  it,  cried  the  pair,  and  that  is  how 
it  came  about  that  my  father  and  mother  were 
married  on  the  first  of  March. 

244 


WHAT   SHE   HAD   BEEN 

That  would  be  the  end,  I  suppose,  if  it  were  a 
story,  but  to  my  mother  it  was  only  another  be- 
ginning, and  not  the  last.  I  see  her  bending  over 
the  cradle  of  her  first-born,  college  for  him  already 
in  her  eye  (and  my  father  not  less  ambitious),  and 
anon  it  is  a  girl  who  is  in  the  cradle,  and  then  an- 
other girl  —  already  a  tragic  figure  to  those  who 
know  the  end.  I  wonder  if  any  instinct  told  my 
mother  that  the  great  day  of  her  life  was  when  she 
bore  this  child ;  what  I  am  sure  of  is  that  from  the 
first  the  child  followed  her  with  the  most  wistful 
eyes  and  saw  how  she  needed  help  and  longed  to 
rise  and  give  it.  For  of  physical  strength  my 
mother  had  never  very  much;  it  was  her  spirit 
that  got  through  the  work,  and  in  those  days  she 
was  often  so  ill  that  the  sand  rained  on  the  doctor's 
window,  and  men  ran  to  and  fro  with  leeches,  and 
"  she  is  in  life,  we  can  say  no  more  "  was  the  in- 
formation for  those  who  came  knocking  at  the 
door.  "  I  am  sorrow  to  say,"  her  father  writes  in 
an  old  letter  now  before  me,  "  that  Margaret  is  in 
a  state  that  she  was  never  so  bad  before  in  this 
world.  Till  Wednesday  night  she  was  in  as  poor 
a  condition  as  you  could  think  of  to  be  alive. 
However,  after  bleeding,  leeching,  etc.,  the  Dr. 
says  this  morning  that  he  is  better  hoped  now,  but 
at  present  we  can  say  no  more  but  only  she  is 
alive  and  in  the  hands  of  Him  in  whose  hands  all 
our  lives  are.  I  can  give  you  no  adequate  view 

245 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

of  what  my  feelings  are,  indeed  they  are  a  burden 
too  heavy  for  me  and  I  cannot  describe  them.  I 
look  on  my  right  and  left  hand  and  find  no  com- 
fort, and  if  it  were  not  for  the  rock  that  is  higher 
than  I  my  spirit  would  utterly  fail,  but  blessed  be 
His  name  who  can  comfort  those  that  are  cast 
down.  O  for  more  faith  in  His  supporting  grace 
in  this  hour  of  trial." 

Then  she  is  "  on  the  mend,"  she  may  "  thole 
thro'"  if  they  take  great  care  of  her,  "which  we 
will  be  forward  to  do."  The  fourth  child  dies 
when  but  a  few  weeks  old,  and  the  next  at  two 
years.  She  was  her  grandfather's  companion,  and 
thus  he  wrote  of  her  death,  this  stern,  self-educated 
Auld  Licht  with  the  chapped  hands : 

"  I  hope  you  received  my  last  in  which  I  spoke 
of  Dear  little  Lydia  being  unwell.  Now  with 
deep  sorrow  I  must  tell  you  that  yesterday  I  as- 
sisted in  laying  her  dear  remains  in  the  lonely 
grave.  She  died  at  7  o'clock  on  Wednesday  even- 
ing, I  suppose  by  the  time  you  had  got  the  letter. 
The  Dr.  did  not  think  it  was  croup  till  late  on 
Tuesday  night,  and  all  that  Medical  aid  could 
prescribe  was  done,  but  the  Dr.  had  no  hope  after 
he  saw  that  the  croup  was  confirmed,  and  hard  in- 
deed would  the  heart  have  been  that  would  not 
have  melted  at  seeing  what  the  dear  little  creature 
suffered  all  Wednesday  until  the  feeble  frame  was 
quite  worn  out.  She  was  quite  sensible  till  within 

246 


WHAT   SHE   HAD   BEEN 

2  hours  of  her  death,  and  then  she  sunk  quite  low 
till  the  vital  spark  fled,  and  all  medicine  that  she 
got  she  took  with  the  greatest  readiness,  as  if  ap- 
prehensive they  would  make  her  well.  I  cannot 
well  describe  my  feelings  on  the  occasion.  I 
thought  that  the  fountain  head  of  my  tears  had 
now  been  dried  up,  but  I  have  been  mistaken,  for 
I  must  confess  that  the  briny  rivulets  descended 
fast  on  my  furrowed  cheeks,  she  was  such  a  win- 
ning Child,  and  had  such  a  regard  for  me  and  al- 
ways came  and  told  me  all  her  little  things,  and  as 
she  was  now  speaking,  some  of  her  little  prattle 
was  very  taking,  and  the  lively  images  of  these 
things  intrude  themselves  more  into  my  mind  than 
they  should  do,  but  there  is  allowance  for  moder- 
ate grief  on  such  occasions.  But  when  I  am  tell- 
ing you  of  my  own  grief  and  sorrow,  I  know  not 
what  to  say  of  the  bereaved  Mother,  she  hath  not 
met  with  anything  in  this  world  before  that  hath 
gone  so  near  the  quick  with  her.  She  had  no 
handling  of  the  last  one  as  she  was  not  able  at  the 
time,  for  she  only  had  her  once  in  her  arms,  and 
her  affections  had  not  time  to  be  so  fairly  entwined 
around  her.  1  am  much  afraid  that  she  will  not 
soon  if  ever  get  over  this  trial.  Although  she  was 
weakly  before,  yet  she  was  pretty  well  recovered, 
but  this  hath  not  only  affected  her  mind  but  her 
body  is  so  much  affected  that  she  is  not  well  able 
to  sit  so  long  as  her  bed  is  making  and  hath 

247 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

scarcely  tasted  meat  [i.  e.  food]  since  Monday 
night,  and  till  some  time  is  elapsed  we  cannot  say 
how  she  may  be.  There  is  none  that  is  not  a  pa- 
rent themselves  that  can  fully  sympathise  with  one 
in  such  a  state.  David  is  much  affected  also,  but 
it  is  not  so  well  known  on  him,  and  the  younger 
branches  of  the  family  are  affected  but  it  will  be 
only  momentary.  But  alas  in  all  this  vast  ado, 
there  is  only  the  sorrow  of  the  world  which  work- 
eth  death,  O  how  gladdening  would  it  be  if  we 
were  in  as  great  bitterness  for  sin  as  for  the  loss  of 
a  first-born.  O  how  unfitted  persons  or  families  is 
for  trials  who  knows  not  the  divine  art  of  casting 
all  their  cares  upon  the  Lord,  and  what  multitudes 
are  there  that  when  earthly  comforts  is  taken  away, 
may  well  say  what  have  I  more?  all  their  delight 
is  placed  in  some  one  thing  or  another  in  the  world, 
and  who  can  blame  them  for  unwillingly  parting 
with  what  they  esteem  their  chief  good.  O  that 
we  were  wise  to  lay  up  treasure  for  the  time  of 
need,  for  it  is  truly  a  solemn  affair  to  enter  the  lists 
with  the  king  of  terrors.  It  is  strange  that  the 
living  lay  the  things  so  little  to  heart  until  they 
have  to  engage  in  that  war  where  there  is  no  dis- 
charge. O  that  my  head  were  waters  and  mine 
eyes  a  fountain  of  tears  that  I  might  weep  day  and 
night  for  my  own  and  others'  stupidity  in  this  great 
matter.  O  for  grace  to  do  every  day  work  in  its 
proper  time  and  to  live  above  the  tempting  cheat- 

248 


WHAT   SHE   HAD   BEEN 

ing  train  of  earthly  things.  The  rest  of  the  fam- 
ily are  moderately  well.  I  have  been  for  some 
days  worse  than  I  have  been  for  8  months  past, 
but  I  may  soon  get  better,  I  am  in  the  same  way 
I  have  often  been  in  before,  but  there  is  no  secur- 
ity for  it  always  being  so,  for  I  know  that  it  can- 
not be  far  from  the  time  when  I  will  be  one  of 
those  that  once  were.  I  have  no  other  news  to 
send  you,  and  as  little  heart  for  them.  I  hope  you 
will  take  the  earliest  opportunity  of  writing  that 
you  can,  and  be  particular  as  regards  Margaret, 
for  she  requires  consolation." 

He  died  exactly  a  week  after  writing  this  letter, 
but  my  mother  was  to  live  for  another  forty-four 
years.  And  joys  of  a  kind  never  shared  in  by 
him  were  to  come  to  her  so  abundantly,  so  long 
drawn  out,  that,  strange  as  it  would  have  seemed 
to  him  to  know  it,  her  fuller  life  had  scarce  yet 
begun.  And  with  the  joys  were  to  come  their 
sweet,  frightened  comrades,  pain  and  grief,  again 
she  was  to  be  touched  to  the  quick,  again  and 
again  to  be  so  ill  that  "  she  is  in  life,  we  can  say 
no  more,"  but  still  she  had  attendants  very  "for- 
ward" to  help  her,  some  of  them  unborn  in  her 
father's  time. 

She  told  me  everything,  and  so  my  memories 
of  our  little  red  town  are  coloured  by  her  memo- 
ries. I  knew  it  as  it  had  been  for  generations,  and 
suddenly  I  saw  it  change,  and  the  transformation 

249 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

could  not  fail  to  strike  a  boy,  for  these  first  years 
are  the  most  impressionable  (nothing  that  happens 
after  we  are  twelve  matters  very  much);  they  are 
also  the  most  vivid  years  when  we  look  back,  and 
more  vivid  the  farther  we  have  to  look,  until,  at 
the  end,  what  lies  between  bends  like  a  hoop,  and 
the  extremes  meet.  But  though  the  new  town  is 
to  me  a  glass  through  which  I  look  at  the  old,  the 
people  I  see  passing  up  and  down  these  wynds, 
sitting,  night-capped,  on  their  barrow-shafts,  hob- 
bling in  their  blacks  to  church  on  Sunday,  are  less 
those  I  saw  in  my  childhood  than  their  fathers  and 
mothers  who  did  these  things  in  the  same  way 
when  my  mother  was  young.  I  cannot  picture 
the  place  without  seeing  her,  as  a  little  girl,  come 
to  the  door  of  a  certain  house  and  beat  her  bass 
against  the  gav'le-end,  or  there  is  a  wedding  to- 
night, and  the  carriage  with  the  white-eared  horse 
is  sent  for  a  maiden  in  pale  blue,  whose  bonnet- 
strings  tie  beneath  the  chin. 


250 


CHAPTER   III 

WHAT   I   SHOULD   BE 

MY  mother  was  a  great  reader,  and  with  ten  min- 
utes to  spare  before  the  starch  was  ready  would 
begin  the  "  Decline  and  Fall "  —  and  finish  it,  too, 
that  winter.  Foreign  words  in  the  text  annoyed 
her  and  made  her  bemoan  her  want  of  a  classical 
education — she  had  only  attended  a  Dame's  school 
during  some  easy  months — but  she  never  passed 
the  foreign  words  by  until  their  meaning  was  ex- 
plained to  her,  and  when  next  she  and  they  met  it 
was  as  acquaintances,  which  I  think  was  clever  of 
her.  One  of  her  delights  was  to  learn  from  me 
scraps  of  Horace,  and  then  bring  them  into  her 
conversation  with  "  colleged  men."  I  have  come 
upon  her  in  lonely  places,  such  as  the  stair-head  or 
the  east  room,  muttering  these  quotations  aloud  to 
herself,  and  I  well  remember  how  she  would  say 
to  the  visitors,  "  Ay,  ay,  it's  very  true,  Doctor,  but 
as  you  know,  'Eheu  fugaces,  Postume,  Postume, 
labuntur  anni,' "  or  "  Sal,  Mr.  so  and  so,  my  lassie 
is  thriving  well,  but  would  it  no  be  more  to  the 
point  to  say  '  O  mater,  pulchra  filia  pulchrior '  ?  " 

251 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

which  astounded  them  very  much  if  she  managed 
to  reach  the  end  without  being  flung,  but  usually 
she  had  a  fit  of  laughing  in  the  middle,  and  so 
they  found  her  out. 

Biography  and  exploration  were  her  favourite 
reading,  for  choice  the  biography  of  men  who  had 
been  good  to  their  mothers,  and  she  liked  the  ex- 
plorers to  be  alive  so  that  she  could  shudder  at  the 
thought  of  their  venturing  forth  again,  but  though 
she  expressed  a  hope  that  they  would  have  the 
sense  to  stay  at  home  henceforth,  she  gleamed  with 
admiration  when  they  disappointed  her.  In  later 
days  I  had  a  friend  who  was  an  African  explorer, 
and  she  was  in  two  minds  about  him ;  he  was  one 
of  the  most  engrossing  of  mortals  to  her,  she  ad- 
mired him  prodigiously,  pictured  him  at  the  head 
of  his  caravan,  now  attacked  by  savages,  now  by 
wild  beasts,  and  adored  him  for  the  uneasy  hours 
he  gave  her,  but  she  was  also  afraid  that  he 
wanted  to  take  me  with  him,  and  then  she  thought 
he  should  be  put  down  by  law.  Explorers'  mo- 
thers  also  interested  her  very  much;  the  books 
might  tell  her  nothing  about  them,  but  she  could 
create  them  for  herself  and  wring  her  hands  in 
sympathy  with  them  when  they  had  got  no  news 
of  him  for  six  months.  Yet  there  were  times  when 
she  grudged  him  to  them  —  as  the  day  when  he 
returned  victorious.  Then  what  was  before  hei 
eyes  was  not  the  son  coming  marching  home 

252 


WHAT   I   SHOULD   BE 

again,  but  an  old  woman  peering  for  him  round 
the  window  curtain  and  trying  not  to  look  up- 
lifted. The  newspaper  reports  would  be  about 
the  son,  but  my  mother's  comment  was  "  She  's  a 
proud  woman  this  night." 

We  read  many  books  together  when  I  was  a 
boy,  "  Robinson  Crusoe  "  being  the  first  (and  the 
second),  and  the  "Arabian  Nights"  should  have 
been  the  next,  for  we  got  it  out  of  the  library  (a 
penny  for  three  days),  but  on  discovering  that 
they  were  nights  when  we  had  paid  for  knights 
we  sent  that  volume  packing,  and  I  have  curled 
my  lips  at  it  ever  since.  "•  The  Pilgrim's  Pro- 
gress "  we  had  in  the  house  (it  was  as  common  a 
possession  as  a  dresser-head),  and  so  enamoured 
of  it  was  I  that  I  turned  our  garden  into  sloughs 
of  Despond,  with  pea-sticks  to  represent  Christian 
on  his  travels  and  a  buffet-stool  for  his  burden,  but 
when  I  dragged  my  mother  out  to  see  my  handi- 
work she  was  scared,  and  I  felt  for  days,  with  a 
certain  elation,  that  I  had  been  a  dark  character. 
Besides  reading  every  book  we  could  hire  or  bor- 
row I  also  bought  one  now  and  again,  and  while 
buying  (it  was  the  occupation  of  weeks)  I  read, 
standing  at  the  counter,  most  of  the  other  books 
in  the  shop,  which  is  perhaps  the  most  exquisite 
way  of  reading.  And  I  took  in  a  magazine  called 
'*  Sunshine,"  the  most  delicious  periodical,  I  am 
sure,  of  any  day.  It  cost  a  halfpenny  or  a  penny 

253 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

a  month,  and  always,  as  I  fondly  remember,  had  a 
continued  tale  about  the  dearest  girl,  who  sold 
water-cress,  which  is  a  dainty  not  grown  and  I 
suppose  never  seen  in  my  native  town.  This  ro- 
mantic little  creature  took  such  hold  of  my  im- 
agination that  I  cannot  eat  water-cress  even  now 
without  emotion.  I  lay  in  bed  wondering  what 
she  would  be  up  to  in  the  next  number;  I  have 
lost  trout  because  when  they  nibbled  my  mind 
was  wandering  with  her;  my  early  life  was  em- 
bittered by  her  not  arriving  regularly  on  the 
first  of  the  month.  I  know  not  whether  it  was 
owing  to  her  loitering  on  the  way  one  month  to 
an  extent  flesh  and  blood  could  not  bear,  or  be- 
cause we  had  exhausted  the  penny  library,  but  on 
a  day  I  conceived  a  glorious  idea,  or  it  was  put 
into  my  head  by  my  mother,  then  desirous  of 
making  progress  with  her  new  clouty  hearth-rug. 
The  notion  was  nothing  short  of  this,  why  should 
I  not  write  the  tales  myself?  I  did  write  them — 
in  the  garret  —  but  they  by  no  means  helped  her 
to  get  on  with  her  work,  for  when  I  finished  a 
chapter  I  bounded  downstairs  to  read  it  to  her,  and 
so  short  were  the  chapters,  so  ready  was  the  pen, 
that  I  was  back  with  new  manuscript  before  an- 
other clout  had  been  added  to  the  rug.  Author- 
ship seemed,  like  her  bannock-baking,  to  consist 
of  running  between  two  points.  They  were  all 
tales  of  adventure  (happiest  is  he  who  writes  of 

254 


WHAT   I   SHOULD   BE 

adventure),  no  characters  were  allowed  within  if 
I  knew  their  like  in  the  flesh,  the  scene  lay  in 
unknown  parts,  desert  islands,  enchanted  gardens^ 
with  knights  (none  of  your  nights)  on  black 
chargers,  and  round  the  first  corner  a  lady  sell- 
ing water-cress. 

At  twelve  or  thereabout  I  put  the  literary  call- 
ing to  bed  for  a  time,  having  gone  to  a  school 
where  cricket  and  football  were  more  esteemed, 
but  during  the  year  before  I  went  to  the  univer- 
sity, it  woke  up  and  I  wrote  great  part  of  a  three- 
volume  novel.  The  publisher  replied  that  the 
sum  for  which  he  would  print  it  was  a  hundred 
and — however,  that  was  not  the  important  point 
(I  had  sixpence) :  where  he  stabbed  us  both  was 
in  writing  that  he  considered  me  a  "  clever  lady." 
I  replied  stiffly  that  I  was  a  gentleman,  and  since 
then  I  have  kept  that  manuscript  concealed.  I 
looked  through  it  lately,  and,  oh,  but  it  is  dull. 
I  defy  any  one  to  read  it. 

The  malignancy  of  publishers,  however,  could 
not  turn  me  back.  From  the  day  on  which  I  first 
tasted  blood  in  the  garret  my  mind  was  made  up ; 
there  could  be  no  hum-dreadful-drum  profession 
for  me;  literature  was  my  game.  It  was  not 
highly  thought  of  by  those  who  wished  me  well. 
I  remember  being  asked  by  two  maiden  ladies, 
about  the  time  I  left  the  university,  what  I  was  to 
be,  and  when  I  replied  brazenly,  "  An  author," 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

they  flung  up  their  hands,  and  one  exclaimed  re- 
proachfully, "And  you  an  M.  A.!"  My  mother's 
views  at  first  were  not  dissimilar;  for  long  she 
took  mine  jestingly  as  something  I  would  grow 
out  of,  and  afterwards  they  hurt  her  so  that  I  tried 
to  give  them  up.  To  be  a  minister  —  that  she 
thought  was  among  the  fairest  prospects,  but  she 
was  a  very  ambitious  woman,  and  sometimes  she 
would  add,  half  scared  at  her  appetite,  that  there 
were  ministers  who  had  become  professors,  "but 
it  was  not  canny  to  think  of  such  things." 

I  had  one  person  only  on  my  side,  an  old  tailor, 
one  of  the  fullest  men  I  have  known,  and  quite 
the  best  talker.  He  was  a  bachelor  (he  told  me 
all  that  is  to  be  known  about  woman),  a  lean  man, 
pallid  of  face,  his  legs  drawn  up  when  he  walked, 
as  if  he  was  ever  carrying  something  in  his  lap ; 
his  walks  were  of  the  shortest,  from  the  tea-pot  on 
the  hob  to  the  board  on  which  he  stitched,  from 
the  board  to  the  hob,  and  so  to  bed.  He  might 
have  gone  out  had  the  idea  struck  him,  but  in  the 
years  I  knew  him,  the  last  of  his  brave  life,  I  think 
he  was  only  in  the  open  twice,  when  he  "  flitted  " 
—  changed  his  room  for  another  hard  by.  I  did 
not  see  him  make  these  journeys,  but  I  seem  to 
see  him  now,  and  he  is  somewhat  dizzy  in  the  odd 
atmosphere ;  in  one  hand  he  carries  a  box-iron,  he 
raises  the  other,  wondering  what  this  is  on  his 
head  —  it  is  a  hat;  a  faint  smell  of  singed  cloth  goes 

256 


WHAT   I   SHOULD  BE 

by  with  him.  This  man  had  heard  of  my  set  of 
photographs  of  the  poets  and  asked  for  a  sight  of 
them,  which  led  to  our  first  meeting.  I  remember 
how  he  spread  them  out  on  his  board,  and  after 
looking  long  at  them,  turned  his  gaze  on  me  and 
said  solemnly, 

What  can  I  do  to  be  for  ever  known, 
And  make  the  age  to  come  my  own  ? 

These  lines  of  Cowley  were  new  to  me,  but  the 
sentiment  was  not  new,  and  I  marvelled  how  the 
old  tailor  could  see  through  me  so  well.  So  it 
was  strange  to  me  to  discover  presently  that  he 
had  not  been  thinking  of  me  at  all,  but  of  his  own 
young  days,  when  that  couplet  sang  in  his  head, 
and  he,  too,  had  thirsted  to  set  off  for  Grub  Street, 
but  was  afraid,  and  while  he  hesitated  old  age 
came,  and  then  Death,  and  found  him  grasping  a 
kox-iron. 

I  hurried  home  with  the  mouthful,  but  neigh- 
bours had  dropped  in,  and  this  was  for  her  ears 
only,  so  I  drew  her  to  the  stair,  and  said  imperi- 
ously, 

What  can  I  do  to  be  for  ever  known, 
And  make  the  age  to  come  my  own? 

It  was  an  odd  request  for  which  to  draw  her  from 
a  tea-table,  and  she  must  have  been  surprised,  but 
I  think  she  did  not  laugh,  and  in  after  years  she 

257 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

would  repeat  the  lines  fondly,  with  a  flush  on  her 
soft  face.  "  That  is  the  kind  you  would  like  to 
be  yourself! "  we  would  say  in  jest  to  her,  and  she 
would  reply  almost  passionately,  "  No,  but  I  would 
be  windy  of  being  his  mother."  It  is  possible  that 
she  could  have  been  his  mother  had  that  other  son 
lived,  he  might  have  managed  it  from  sheer  love 
of  her,  but  for  my  part  I  can  smile  at  one  of  those 
two  figures  on  the  stair  now,  having  long  given  up 
the  dream  of  being  for  ever  known,  and  seeing 
myself  more  akin  to  my  friend,  the  tailor ;  for  as 
he  was  found  at  the  end  on  his  board,  so  I  hope 
shall  I  be  found  at  my  hand-loom,  doing  honestly 
the  work  that  suits  me  best.  Who  shall  know  so 
well  as  I  that  it  is  but  a  hand-loom  compared  to 
the  great  guns  that  reverberate  through  the  age  to 
come*?  But  she  who  stood  with  me  on  the  stair 
that  day  was  a  very  simple  woman,  accustomed  all 
her  life  to  making  the  most  of  small  things,  and  I 
weaved  sufficiently  well  to  please  her,  which  has 
been  my  only  steadfast  ambition  since  I  was  a  little 
boy. 

Not  less  than  mine  became  her  desire  that  I 
should  have  my  way  —  but,  ah,  the  iron  seats  in 
that  Park  of  horrible  repute,  and  that  bare  room 
at  the  top  of  many  flights  of  stairs  !  While  I  was 
away  at  college  she  drained  all  available  libraries 
for  books  about  those  who  go  to  London  to  live 
by  the  pen,  and  they  all  told  the  same  shuddering 

258 


WHAT   I   SHOULD  BE 

tale.  London,  which  she  never  saw,  was  to  her  a 
monster  that  licked  up  country  youths  as  they 
stepped  from  the  train ;  there  were  the  garrets  in 
which  they  sat  abject,  and  the  park  seats  where 
they  passed  the  night.  Those  park  seats  were  the 
monster's  glaring  eyes  to  her,  and  as  I  go  by  them 
now  she  is  nearer  to  me  than  when  I  am  in  any 
other  part  of  London.  I  daresay  that  when  night 
comes,  this  Hyde  Park  which  is  so  gay  by  day  is 
haunted  by  the  ghosts  of  many  mothers,  who  run, 
wild-eyed,  from  seat  to  seat,  looking  for  their  sons. 
But  if  we  could  dodge  those  dreary  seats  she 
longed  to  see  me  try  my  luck,  and  I  sought  to  ex- 
clude them  from  the  picture  by  drawing  maps  of 
London  with  Hyde  Park  left  out.  London  was 
as  strange  to  me  as  to  her,  but  long  before  I  was 
shot  upon  it  I  knew  it  by  maps,  and  drew  them 
more  accurately  than  I  could  draw  them  now. 
Many  a  time  she  and  I  took  our  jaunt  together 
through  the  map,  and  were  most  gleeful,  popping 
into  telegraph  offices  to  wire  my  father  and  sister 
that  we  should  not  be  home  till  late,  winking  to 
my  books  in  lordly  shop-windows,  lunching  at 
restaurants  (and  remembering  not  to  call  it  dinner), 
saying,  "How  do?  "  to  Mr.  Alfred  Tennyson  when 
we  passed  him  in  Regent  Street,  calling  at  pub- 
lishers' offices  for  a  cheque,  when  "  Will  you  take 
care  of  it,  or  shall  I  ? "  I  asked  gaily,  and  she 
would  be  certain  to  reply,  "  I'm  thinking  we'd  bet- 

259 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

ter  take  it  to  the  bank  and  get  the  money,"  for  she 
always  felt  surer  of  money  than  of  cheques,  so  to 
the  bank  we  went  ("  Two  tens,  and  the  rest  in 
gold"),  and  thence  straightway  (by  cab)  to  the 
place  where  you  buy  sealskin  coats  for  middling 
old  ladies.  But  ere  the  laugh  was  done  the  park 
would  come  through  the  map  like  a  blot. 

"  If  you  could  only  be  sure  of  as  much  as  would 
keep  body  and  soul  together,"  my  mother  would 
say  with  a  sigh. 

"  With  something  over,  mother,  to  send  to 
you." 

"  You  couldna  expect  that  at  the  start." 

The  wench  I  should  have  been  courting  now 
was  journalism,  that  grisette  of  literature  who  has 
a  smile  and  a  hand  for  all  beginners,  welcoming 
them  at  the  threshold,  teaching  them  so  much 
that  is  worth  knowing,  introducing  them  to  the 
other  lady  whom  they  have  worshipped  from  afar, 
showing  them  even  how  to  woo  her,  and  then 
bidding  them  a  bright  God-speed  —  he  were  an 
ingrate  who,  having  had  her  joyous  companion- 
ship, no  longer  flings  her  a  kiss  as  they  pass.  But 
though  she  bears  no  ill-will  when  she  is  jilted,  you 
must  serve  faithfully  while  you  are  hers,  and  you 
must  seek  her  out  and  make  much  of  her,  and, 
until  you  can  rely  on  her  good-nature  (note  this), 
not  a  word  about  the  other  lady.  When  at  last 
she  took  me  in  I  grew  so  fond  of  her  that  I  called 

260 


WHAT   I   SHOULD  BE 

her  by  the  other's  name,  and  even  now  I  think  at 
times  that  there  was  more  fun  in  the  little  sister, 
but  I  began  by  wooing  her  with  contributions 
that  were  all  misfits.  In  an  old  book  I  find  col- 
umns of  notes  about  works  projected  at  this  time, 
nearly  all  to  consist  of  essays  on  deeply  uninter- 
esting subjects;  the  lightest  was  to  be  a  volume 
on  the  older  satirists,  beginning  with  Skelton  and 
Tom  Nash  —  the  half  of  that  manuscript  still  lies 
in  a  dusty  chest  —  the  only  story  was  about  Mary 
Queen  of  Scots,  who  was  also  the  subject  of  many 
unwritten  papers.  Queen  Mary  seems  to  have 
been  luring  me  to  my  undoing  ever  since  I  saw 
Holyrood,  and  I  have  a  horrid  fear  that  I  may 
write  that  novel  yet.  That  anything  could  be 
written  about  my  native  place  never  struck  me. 
We  had  read  somewhere  that  a  novelist  is  better 
equipped  than  most  of  his  trade  if  he  knows  him- 
self and  one  woman,  and  my  mother  said,  "  You 
know  yourself,  for  everybody  must  know  himself" 
(there  never  was  a  woman  who  knew  less  about 
herself  than  she),  and  she  would  add  dolefully, 
"  But  I  doubt  I'm  the  only  woman  you  know 
well." 

"  Then  I  must  make  you  my  heroine,"  I  said 
lightly. 

"  A  gey  auld-farrant-like  heroine  ! "  she  said,  and 
we  both  laughed  at  the  notion  —  so  little  did  we 
read  the  future. 

261 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

Thus  it  is  obvious  what  were  my  qualifications 
when  I  was  rashly  engaged  as  a  leader-writer  (it 
was  my  sister  who  saw  the  advertisement)  on  an 
English  provincial  paper.  At  the  moment  I  was 
as  uplifted  as  the  others,  for  the  chance  had  come 
at  last,  with  what  we  all  regarded  as  a  prodigious 
salary,  but  I  was  wanted  in  the  beginning  of  the 
week,  and  it  suddenly  struck  me  that  the  leaders 
were  the  one  thing  I  had  always  skipped.  Lead- 
ers! How  were  they  written?  what  were  they 
about*?  My  mother  was  already  sitting  trium- 
phant among  my  socks,  and  I  durst  not  let  her  see 
me  quaking.  I  retired  to  ponder,  and  presently 
she  came  to  me  with  the  daily  paper.  Which 
were  the  leaders?  she  wanted  to  know,  so  evi- 
dently I  could  get  no  help  from  her.  Had  she 
any  more  newspapers'?  I  asked,  and  after  rum- 
maging she  produced  a  few  with  which  her  boxes 
had  been  lined.  Others,  very  dusty,  came  from 
beneath  carpets,  and  lastly  a  sooty  bundle  was 
dragged  down  the  chimney.  Surrounded  by  these, 
I  sat  down  and  studied  how  to  become  a  journalist. 


262 


CHAPTER  IV 

AN   EDITOR 

A  DEVOUT  lady,  to  whom  some  friend  had  presented 
one  of  my  books,  used  to  say  when  asked  how  she 
was  getting  on  with  it, "  Sal,  it's  dreary,  weary,  uphill 
work,  but  I've  wrastled  through  with  tougher  jobs 
in  my  time,  and,  please  God,  I'll  wrastle  through 
with  this  one."  It  was  in  this  spirit,  I  fear,  though 
she  never  told  me  so,  that  my  mother  wrestled  for 
the  next  year  or  more  with  my  leaders,  and  indeed 
I  was  always  genuinely  sorry  for  the  people  I  saw 
reading  them.  In  my  spare  hours  I  was  trying 
journalism  of  another  kind  and  sending  it  to  Lon- 
don, but  nearly  eighteen  months  elapsed  before 
there  came  to  me,  as  unlocked  for  as  a  telegram, 
the  thought  that  there  was  something  quaint  about 
my  native  place.  A  boy  who  found  that  a  knife 
had  been  put  into  his  pocket  in  the  night  could 
not  have  been  more  surprised.  A  few  days  after- 
wards I  sent  my  mother  a  London  evening  paper 
with  an  article  entitled  "  An  Auld  Licht  Commu- 
nity," and  they  told  me  that  when  she  saw  the 
heading  she  laughed,  because  there  was  something 
droll  to  her  in  the  sight  of  the  words  Auld  Licht 

263 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

in  print.  For  her,  as  for  me,  that  newspaper  was 
soon  to  have  the  face  of  a  friend.  To  this  day  I 
never  pass  its  placards  in  the  street  without  shak- 
ing it  by  the  hand,  and  she  used  to  sew  its  pages 
together  as  lovingly  as  though  they  were  a  child's 
frock ;  but  let  the  truth  be  told,  when  she  read  that 
first  article  she  became  alarmed,  and  fearing  the 
talk  of  the  town,  hid  the  paper  from  all  eyes.  For 
some  time  afterwards,  while  I  proudly  pictured 
her  showing  this  and  similar  articles  to  all  who 
felt  an  interest  in  me,  she  was  really  concealing 
them  fearfully  in  a  bandbox  on  the  garret  stair. 
And  she  wanted  to  know  by  return  of  post  whether 
I  was  paid  for  these  articles  just  as  I  was  paid  for 
real  articles ;  when  she  heard  that  I  was  paid  bet- 
ter, she  laughed  again  and  had  them  out  of  the 
bandbox  for  re-reading,  and  it  cannot  be  denied 
that  she  thought  the  London  editor  a  fine  fellow 
but  slightly  soft. 

When  I  sent  off  that  first  sketch  I  thought  I 
had  exhausted  the  subject,  but  our  editor  wrote 
that  he  would  like  something  more  of  the  same, 
so  I  sent  him  a  marriage,  and  he  took  it,  and  then 
I  tried  him  with  a  funeral,  and  he  took  it,  and 
really  it  began  to  look  as  if  we  had  him.  Now 
my  mother  might  have  been  discovered,  in  answer 
to  certain  excited  letters,  flinging  the  bundle  of 
undarned  socks  from  her  lap,  and  "  going  in  for 
literature;"  she  was  racking  her  brains,  by  request, 

264 


AN   EDITOR 

for  memories  I  might  convert  into  articles,  and 
they  came  to  me  in  letters  which  she  dictated  to 
my  sisters.  How  well  I  could  hear  her  saying 
between  .  the  lines :  "  But  the  editor-man  will 

never  stand  that,  it's  perfect  blethers  " "  By 

this  post  it  must  go,  I  tell  you ;  we  must  take  the 
editor  when  he's  hungry  —  we  canna  be  blamed 
for  it,  can  we  *?  he  prints  them  of  his  free  will,  so 

the  wite  is  his" "But  I'm  near  terrified. —  If 

London  folk  reads  them  we're  done  for."  And  I 
was  sounded  as  to  the  advisability  of  sending  him 
a  present  of  a  lippie  of  short-bread,  which  was  to 
be  her  crafty  way  of  getting  round  him.  By  this 
time,  though  my  mother  and  I  were  hundreds  of 
miles  apart,  you  may  picture  us  waving  our  hands 
to  each  other  across  country,  and  shouting  "  Hur- 
rah ! "  You  may  also  picture  the  editor  in  his 
office  thinking  he  was  behaving  like  a  shrewd 
man  of  business,  and  unconscious  that  up  in  the 
north  there  was  an  elderly  lady  chuckling  so  much 
at  him  that  she  could  scarcely  scrape  the  potatoes. 

I  was  now  able  to  see  my  mother  again,  and 
the  park  seats  no  longer  loomed  so  prominent  in 
our  map  of  London.  Still,  there  they  were,  and 
it  was  with  an  effort  that  she  summoned  up  cou- 
rage to  let  me  go.  She  feared  changes,  and  who 
ccmld  tell  that  the  editor  would  continue  to  be 
kind  *?  Perhaps  when  he  saw  me  — 

She  seemed  to  be  very  much  afraid  of  his  seeing 
265 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

me,  and  this,  I  would  point  out,  was  a  reflection 
en  my  appearance  or  my  manner. 

No,  what  she  meant  was  that  I  looked  so  young, 
and — and  that  would  take  him  aback,  for  had  I 
not  written  as  an  aged  man  ? 

"  But  he  knows  my  age,  mother." 

"  I'm  glad  of  that,  but  maybe  he  wouldna  like 
you  when  he  saw  you." 

"  Oh,  it  is  my  manner,  then ! " 

"I  dinna  say  that,  but " 

Here  my  sister  would  break  in :  "  The  short 
and  the  long  of  it  is  just  this,  she  thinks  nobody 
has  such  manners  as  herself.  Can  you  deny  it, 
you  vain  woman?" 

My  mother  would  deny  it  vigorously. 

"  You  stand  there,"  my  sister  would  say  with  af- 
fected scorn,  "and  tell  me  you  don't  think  you  could 
get  the  better  of  that  man  quicker  than  any  of  us*?" 

"  Sal,  I'm  thinking  I  could  manage  him,"  says 
my  mother,  with  a  chuckle. 

"How  would  you  set  about  it?" 

Then  my  mother  would  begin  to  laugh.  "  I 
would  find  out  first  if  he  had  a  family,  and  then  I 
would  say  they  were  the  finest  family  in  London." 

"Yes,  that  is  just  what  you  would  do,  you  cun- 
ning woman !  But  if  he  has  no  family  ?  " 

"  I  would  say  what  great  men  editors  are  ! " 

"  He  would  see  through  you." 

"Not  he!" 

266 


AN  EDITOR 

"You  don't  understand  that  what  imposes  on 
common  folk  would  never  hoodwink  an  editor." 

"  That's  where  you  are  wrong.  Gentle  or  sim- 
ple, stupid  or  clever,  the  men  are  all  alike  in  the 
hands  of  a  woman  that  flatters  them." 

"  Ah,  I'm  sure  there  are  better  ways  of  getting 
round  an  editor  than  that." 

"  I  daresay  there  are,"  my  mother  would  say 
with  conviction,  "but  if  you  try  that  plan  you 
will  never  need  to  try  another." 

"  How  artful  you  are,  mother  —  you  with  your 
soft  face  !  Do  you  not  think  shame  *?  " 

"  Pooh ! "  says  my  mother  brazenly. 

**  I  can  see  the  reason  why  you  are  so  popular 
with  men." 

"  Ay,  you  can  see  it,  but  they  never  will." 

"  Well,  how  would  you  dress  yourself  if  you 
were  going  to  that  editor's  office  *?  " 

"  Of  course  I  would  wear  my  silk  and  my  Sab- 
bath bonnet." 

"  It  is  you  who  are  shortsighted  now,  mother. 
I  tell  you,  you  would  manage  him  better  if  you 
just  put  on  your  old  grey  shawl  and  one  of  your 
bonny  white  mutches,  and  went  in  half  smiling 
and  half  timid  and  said,  '  I  am  the  mother  of  him 
that  writes  about  the  Auld  Lichts,  and  I  want  you 
to  promise  that  he  will  never  have  to  sleep  in  the 
open  air.' " 

But  my  mother  would  shake  her  head  at  this, 

267 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

and  reply  almost  hotly,  "  I  tell  you  if  I  ever  go 
into  that  man's  office,  I  go  in  silk." 

I  wrote  and  asked  the  editor  if  I  should  come 
to  London,  and  he  said  No,  so  I  went,  laden  with 
charges  from  my  mother  to  walk  in  the  middle  of 
the  street  (they  jump  out  on  you  as  you  are  turn- 
ing a  corner),  never  to  venture  forth  after  sunset, 
and  always  to  lock  up  everything  (I  who  could 
never  lock  up  anything,  except  my  heart  in  com- 
pany). Thanks  to  this  editor,  for  the  others  would 
have  nothing  to  say  to  me  though  I  battered  on 
all  their  doors,  she  was  soon  able  to  sleep  at  nights 
without  the  dread  that  I  should  be  waking  pres- 
ently with  the  iron-work  of  certain  seats  figured 
on  my  person,  and  what  relieved  her  very  much 
was  that  I  had  begun  to  write  as  if  Auld  Lichts 
were  not  the  only  people  I  knew  of.  So  long  as 
I  confined  myself  to  them  she  had  a  haunting  fear 
that,  even  though  the  editor  remained  blind  to  his 
best  interests,  something  would  one  day  go  crack 
within  me  (as  the  mainspring  of  a  watch  breaks) 
and  my  pen  refuse  to  write  for  evermore.  "Ay, 
I  like  the  article  brawly,"  she  would  say  timidly, 
"but  I'm  doubting  it's  the  last — I  always  have 
a  sort  of  terror  the  new  one  may  be  the  last,"  and 
if  many  days  elapsed  before  the  arrival  of  another 
article  her  face  would  say  mournfully,  "  The  blow 
has  fallen — he  can  think  of  nothing  more  to  write 
about."  If  I  ever  shared  her  fears  I  never  told  her 

268 


AN   EDITOR 

so,  and  the  articles  that  were  not  Scotch  grew  in 
number  until  there  were  hundreds  of  them,  all 
carefully  preserved  by  her:  they  were  the  only 
thing  in  the  house  that,  having  served  one  pur- 
pose, she  did  not  convert  into  something  else,  yet 
they  could  give  her  uneasy  moments.  This  was 
because  I  nearly  always  assumed  a  character  when 
I  wrote ;  I  must  be  a  country  squire,  or  an  under- 
graduate, or  a  butler,  or  a  member  of  the  House 
of  Lords,  or  a  dowager,  or  a  lady  called  Sweet 
Seventeen,  or  an  engineer  in  India,  else  was  my 
pen  clogged;  and  though  this  gave  my  mother 
certain  fearful  joys,  causing  her  to  laugh  unex- 
pectedly (so  far  as  my  articles  were  concerned  she 
nearly  always  laughed  in  the  wrong  place),  it  also 
scared  her.  Much  to  her  amusement,  the  editor 
continued  to  prefer  the  Auld  Licht  papers,  how- 
ever, as  was  proved  (to  those  who  knew  him)  by 
his  way  of  thinking  that  the  others  would  pass  as 
they  were,  while  he  sent  these  back  and  asked  me 
to  make  them  better.  Here  again  she  came  to 
my  aid.  I  had  said  that  the  row  of  stockings  were 
hung  on  a  string  by  the  fire,  which  was  a  recollec- 
tion of  my  own,  but  she  could  tell  me  whether 
they  were  hung  upside  down.  She  became  quite 
skilful  at  sending  or  giving  me  (for  now  I  could 
be  with  her  half  the  year)  the  right  details,  but 
still  she  smiled  at  the  editor,  and  in  her  gay  moods 
she  would  say,  "  I  was  fifteen  when  I  got  my  first 

269 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

pair  of  elastic-sided  boots.     Tell  him  my  charge 
for  this  important  news  is  two  pounds  ten." 

"  Ay,  but  though  we're  doing  well,  it's  no  the 
same  as  if  they  were  a  book  with  your  name  on 
it."  So  the  ambitious  woman  would  say  with  a 
sigh,  and  I  did  my  best  to  turn  the  Auld  Licht 
sketches  into  a  book  with  my  name  on  it.  Then 
perhaps  we  understood  most  fully  how  good  a 
friend  our  editor  had  been,  for  just  as  I  had  been 
able  to  find  no  well-known  magazine  —  and  I 
think  I  tried  all  —  which  would  print  any  article 
or  story  about  the  poor  of  my  native  land,  so  now 
the  publishers,  Scotch  and  English,  refused  to  ac- 
cept the  book  as  a  gift.  I  was  willing  to  present 
it  to  them,  but  they  would  have  it  in  no  guise ; 
there  seemed  to  be  a  blight  on  everything  that 
was  Scotch.  I  daresay  we  sighed,  but  never  were 
collaborators  more  prepared  for  rejection,  and 
though  my  mother  might  look  wistfully  at  the 
scorned  manuscript  at  times  and  murmur,  "  You 
poor  cold  little  crittur  shut  away  in  a  drawer,  are 
you  dead  or  just  sleeping  *? "  she  had  still  her 
editor  to  say  grace  over.  And  at  last  publishers, 
sufficiently  daring  and  far  more  than  sufficiently 
generous,  were  found  for  us  by  a  dear  friend,  who 
made  one  woman  very  "  uplifted."  He  also  was 
an  editor,  and  had  as  large  a  part  in  making  me  a 
writer  of  books  as  the  other  in  determining  what 
the  books  should  be  about. 

270 


AN   EDITOR 

Now  that  I  was  an  author,  I  must  get  into  a 
club.  But  you  should  have  heard  my  mother  on 
clubs !  She  knew  of  none  save  those  to  which 
you  subscribe  a  pittance  weekly  in  anticipation  of 
rainy  days,  and  the  London  clubs  were  her  scorn. 
Often  I  heard  her  on  them  —  she  raised  her  voice 
to  make  me  hear,  whichever  room  I  might  be  in, 
and  it  was  when  she  was  sarcastic  that  I  skulked 
the  most :  "  Thirty  pounds  is  what  he  will  have  to 
pay  the  first  year,  and  ten  pounds  a  year  after  that. 
You  think  it's  a  lot  o'  siller?  Oh,  no,  you're 
mista'en  —  it's  nothing  ava.  For  the  third  part  of 
thirty  pounds  you  could  rent  a  four-roomed  house, 
but  what  is  a  four-roomed  house,  what  is  thirty 
pounds,  compared  to  the  glory  of  being  a  member 
of  a  club  !  Where  does  the  glory  come  in  ?  Sal, 
you  needna  ask  me,  I'm  just  a  doited  auld  stock 
that  never  set  foot  in  a  club,  so  it's  little  I  ken 
about  glory.  But  I  may  tell  you  if  you  bide  in 
London  and  canna  become  member  of  a  club, 
the  best  you  can  do  is  to  tie  a  rope  round  your 
neck  and  slip  out  of  the  world.  What  use  are 
they1?  Oh,  they're  terrible  useful.  You  see,  it 
doesna  do  for  a  man  in  London  to  eat  his  dinner 
in  his  lodgings.  Other  men  shake  their  heads  at 
him.  He  maun  away  to  his  club  if  he  is  to  be 
respected.  Does  he  get  good  dinners  at  the  club  ? 
Oh,  they  cow !  You  get  no  common  beef  at 
clubs;  there  is  a  manzy  of  different  things  all 

271 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

sauced  up  to  be  unlike  themsels.  Even  the  pota- 
toes daurna  look  like  potatoes.  If  the  food  in  a 
club  looks  like  what  it  is,  the  members  run  about, 
flinging  up  their  hands  and  crying,  '  Woe  is  me!' 
Then  this  is  another  thing,  you  get  your  letters 
sent  to  the  club  instead  of  to  your  lodgings.  You 
see,  you  would  get  them  sooner  at  your  lodgings, 
and  you  may  have  to  trudge  weary  miles  to  the 
club  for  them ;  but  that's  a  great  advantage,  and 
cheap  at  thirty  pounds,  is  it  no  *?  I  wonder  they 
can  do  it  at  the  price." 

My  wisest  policy  was  to  remain  downstairs 
when  these  withering  blasts  were  blowing,  but 
probably  I  went  up  in  self-defence. 

"  I  never  saw  you  so  pugnacious  before,  mother." 

"  Oh,"  she  would  reply  promptly,  "  you  canna 
expect  me  to  be  sharp  in  the  uptake  when  I  am 
no  a  member  of  a  club." 

"But  the  difficulty  is  in  becoming  a  member. 
They  are  very  particular  about  whom  they  elect, 
and  I  daresay  I  shall  not  get  in." 

"  Well,  I'm  but  a  poor  crittur  (not  being  mem- 
ber of  a  club),  but  I  think  I  can  tell  you  to  make 
your  mind  easy  on  that  head.  You'll  get  in,  I'se 
uphaud — and  your  thirty  pounds  will  get  in,  too." 

"  If  I  get  in,  it  will  be  because  the  editor  is  sup- 
porting me." 

"  It's  the  first  ill  thing  I  ever  heard  of  him." 
272 


AN   EDITOR 

"  You  don't  think  he  is  to  get  any  of  the  thirty 
pounds,  do  you  ?  " 

"  'Deed  if  I  did  I  should  be  better  pleased,  for 
he  has  been  a  good  friend  to  us ;  but  what  mad- 
dens me  is  that  every  penny  of  it  should  go  to 
those  bare-faced  scoundrels." 

"  What  bare-faced  scoundrels  ?  " 

"  Them  that  have  the  club." 

"  But  all  the  members  have  the  club  between 
them." 

"  Havers !  I'm  no  to  be  catched  with  chaff." 

"  But  don't  you  believe  me  ?  " 

"  I  believe  they've  filled  your  head  with  their 
stories  till  you  swallow  whatever  they  tell  you. 
If  the  place  belongs  to  the  members,  why  do  they 
have  to  pay  thirty  pounds  ?  " 

"  To  keep  it  going." 

"  They  dinna  have  to  pay  for  their  dinners, 
then?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  they  have  to  pay  extra  for  dinner." 

"  And  a  gey  black  price,  I'm  thinking." 

"  Well,  five  or  six  shillings." 

"  Is  that  all  ?  Losh,  it's  nothing.  I  wonder 
they  dinna  raise  the  price." 

Nevertheless  my  mother  was  of  a  sex  that 
scorned  prejudice,  and,  dropping  sarcasm,  she 
would  at  times  cross-examine  me  as  if  her  mind 
was  not  yet  made  up.  "  Tell  me  this,  if  you  were 

273 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

to  fall  ill,  would  you  be  paid  a  weekly  allowance 
out  of  the  club  ?  " 

No,  it  was  not  that  kind  of  club. 

"  I  see.  Well,  I  am  just  trying  to  find  out 
what  kind  of  club  it  is.  Do  you  get  anything  out 
of  it  for  accidents'?" 

Not  a  penny. 

"  Anything  at  New  Year's  time  ?  " 

Not  so  much  as  a  goose. 

"  Is  there  any  one  mortal  thing  you  get  free 
out  of  that  club  ?  " 

There  was  not  one  mortal  thing. 

"And  thirty  pounds  is  what  you  pay  for  this1?" 

If  the  committee  elected  me. 

"  How  many  are  in  the  committee  ?  " 

About  a  dozen,  I  thought. 

"  A  dozen !  Ay,  ay,  that  makes  two  pound  ten 
apiece." 

When  I  was  elected  I  thought  it  wisdom  to 
send  my  sister  upstairs  with  the  news.  My  mother 
was  ironing,  and  made  no  comment,  unless  with 
the  iron,  which  I  could  hear  rattling  more  vio- 
lently in  its  box.  Presently  I  heard  her  laughing 
—  at  me  undoubtedly,  but  she  had  recovered  con- 
trol over  her  face  before  she  came  downstairs  to 
congratulate  me  sarcastically.  This  was  grand 
news,  she  said  without  a  twinkle,  and  I  must  write 
and  thank  the  committee,  the  noble  critturs.  I 
saw  behind  her  mask,  and  maintained  a  dignified 

274 


AN   EDITOR 

silence,  but  she  would  have  another  shot  at  me. 
"And  tell  them,"  she  said  from  the  door,  "you 
were  doubtful  of  being  elected,  but  your  auld 
mother  had  aye  a  mighty  confidence  they  would 
snick  you  in."  I  heard  her  laughing  softly  as  she 
went  up  the  stair,  but  though  I  had  provided  her 
with  a  joke  I  knew  she  was  burning  to  tell  the 
committee  what  she  thought  of  them. 

Money,  you  see,  meant  so  much  to  her,  though 
even  at  her  poorest  she  was  the  most  cheerful 
giver.  In  the  old  days,  when  the  article  arrived, 
she  did  not  read  it  at  once,  she  first  counted  the 
lines  to  discover  what  we  should  get  for  it  —  she 
and  the  daughter  who  was  so  dear  to  her  had  cal- 
culated the  payment  per  line,  and  I  remember 
once  overhearing  a  discussion  between  them  about 
whether  that  sub-title  meant  another  sixpence. 
Yes,  she  knew  the  value  of  money;  she  had  al- 
ways in  the  end  got  the  things  she  wanted,  but 
now  she  could  get  them  more  easily,  and  it  turned 
her  simple  life  into  a  fairy  tale.  So  often  in  those 
days  she  went  down  suddenly  upon  her  knees; 
we  would  come  upon  her  thus,  and  go  away  noise- 
lessly. After  her  death  I  found  that  she  had  pre- 
served in  a  little  box,  with  a  photograph  of  me  as 
a  child,  the  envelopes  which  had  contained  my 
first  cheques.  There  was  a  little  ribbon  round 
them. 


275 


CHAPTER   V 

A   DAY  OF   HER   LIFE 

I  SHOULD  like  to  call  back  a  day  of  her  life  as  it 
was  at  this  time,  when  her  spirit  was  as  bright  as 
ever  and  her  hand  as  eager,  but  she  was  no  longer 
able  to  do  much  work.  It  should  not  be  difficult, 
for  she  repeated  herself  from  day  to  day,  and  yet 
did  it  with  a  quaint  unreasonableness  that  was 
ever  yielding  fresh  delight.  Our  love  for  her  was 
such  that  we  could  easily  tell  what  she  would  do 
in  given  circumstances,  but  she  had  always  a  new 
way  of  doing  it 

Well,  with  break  of  day  she  wakes  and  sits  up 
in  bed  and  is  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 
So  nimble  was  she  in  the  mornings  (one  of  our 
troubles  with  her)  that  these  three  actions  must  be 
considered  as  one ;  she  is  on  the  floor  before  you 
have  time  to  count  them.  She  has  strict  orders 
not  to  rise  until  her  fire  is  lit,  and  having  broken 
them  there  is  a  demure  elation  on  her  face.  The 
question  is  what  to  do  before  she  is  caught  and 
hurried  to  bed  again.  Her  fingers  are  tingling  to 
prepare  the  breakfast;  she  would  dearly  love  to 

276 


A   DAY   OF   HER   LIFE 

black-lead  the  grate,  but  that  might  rouse  her 
daughter  from  whose  side  she  has  slipped  so  cun- 
ningly. She  catches  sight  of  the  screen  at  the  foot 
of  the  bed,  and  immediately  her  soft  face  becomes 
very  determined.  To  guard  her  from  draughts 
the  screen  had  been  brought  here  from  the  lordly 
east  room,  where  it  was  of  no  use  whatever.  But 
in  her  opinion  it  was  too  beautiful  for  use ;  it  be- 
longed to  the  east  room,  where  she  could  take 
pleasant  peeps  at  it;  she  had  objected  to  its  re- 
moval, even  become  low-spirited.  Now  is  her 
opportunity.  The  screen  is  an  unwieldy  thing, 
but  still  as  a  mouse  she  carries  it,  and  they  are 
well  under  way  when  it  strikes  against  the  gas- 
bracket in  the  passage.  Next  moment  a  reproach- 
ful hand  arrests  her.  She  is  challenged  with  being 
out  of  bed,  she  denies  it  —  standing  in  the  pas- 
sage. Meekly  or  stubbornly  she  returns  to  bed, 
and  it  is  no  satisfaction  to  you  that  you  can  say, 
"  Well,  well,  of  all  the  women ! "  and  so  on,  or 
"  Surely  you  knew  that  the  screen  was  brought 
here  to  protect  you,"  for  she  will  reply  scornfully, 
"  Who  was  touching  the  screen  *?  " 

By  this  time  I  have  awakened  (I  am  through 
the  wall)  and  join  them  anxiously :  so  often  has 
my  mother  been  taken  ill  in  the  night  that  the 
slightest  sound  from  her  room  rouses  the  house. 
She  is  in  bed  again,  looking  as  if  she  had  never 
been  out  of  it,  but  I  know  her  and  listen  sternly 

277 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

to  the  tale  of  her  misdoings.  She  is  not  contrite. 
Yes,  maybe  she  did  promise  not  to  venture  forth 
on  the  cold  floors  of  daybreak,  but  she  had  risen 
for  a  moment  only,  and  we  just  t'neaded  her  with 
our  talk  about  draughts  —  there  were  no  such 
things  as  draughts  in  her  young  days  —  and  it  is 
more  than  she  can  do  (here  she  again  attempts  to 
rise,  but  we  hold  her  down)  to  lie  there  and  watch 
that  beautiful  screen  being  spoilt.  I  reply  that 
the  beauty  of  the  screen  has  ever  been  its  miser- 
able defect :  ho,  there !  for  a  knife  with  which  to 
spoil  its  beauty  and  make  the  bedroom  its  fitting 
home.  As  there  is  no  knife  handy,  my  foot  will 
do ;  I  raise  my  foot,  and  then  —  she  sees  that  it  is 
bare,  she  cries  to  me  excitedly  to  go  back  to  bed 
lest  I  catch  cold.  For  though,  ever  careless  of 
herself,  she  will  wander  the  house  unshod,  and  tell 
us  not  to  talk  havers  when  we  chide  her,  the  sight 
of  one  of  us  similarly  negligent  rouses  her  anxiety 
at  once.  She  is  willing  now  to  sign  any  vow  if 
only  I  will  take  my  bare  feet  back  to  bed,  but 
probably  she  is  soon  after  me  in  hers  to  make  sure 
that  I  am  nicely  covered  up. 

It  is  scarcely  six  o'clock,  and  we  have  all  prom- 
ised to  sleep  for  another  hour,  but  in  ten  minutes 
she  is  sure  that  eight  has  struck  (house  disgraced), 
or  that  if  it  has  not,  something  is  wrong  with  the 
clock.  Next  moment  she  is  captured  on  her  way 
downstairs  to  wind  up  the  clock.  So  evidently 

278 


A   DAY   OF   HER   LIFE 

we  must  be  up  and  doing,  and  as  we  have  no  ser- 
vant, my  sister  disappears  into  the  kitchen,  having 
first  asked  me  to  see  that  "that  woman"  lies  still, and 
"  that  woman  "  calls  out  that  she  always  does  lie 
still,  so  what  are  we  blethering  about  ? 

She  is  up  now,  and  dressed  in  her  thick  maroon 
wrapper;  over  her  shoulders  (lest  she  should  stray 
despite  our  watchfulness)  is  a  shawl,  not  placed 
there  by  her  own  hands,  and  on  her  head  a  deli- 
cious mutch.  O,  that  I  could  sing  the  paean  of 
the  white  mutch  (and  the  dirge  of  the  elaborate 
black  cap)  from  the  day  when  she  called  witch- 
craft to  her  aid  and  made  it  out  of  snow-flakes,  and 
the  dear  worn  hands  that  washed  it  tenderly  in  a 
basin,  and  the  starching  of  it,  and  the  finger-iron 
for  its  exquisite  frills  that  looked  like  curls  of 
sugar,  and  the  sweet  bands  with  which  it  tied  be- 
neath the  chin !  The  honoured  snowy  mutch, 
how  I  love  to  see  it  smiling  to  me  from  the  doors 
and  windows  of  the  poor;  it  is  always  smiling  — 
sometimes  maybe  a  wavering,  wistful  smile,  as  if 
a  tear-drop  lay  hidden  among  the  frills.  A  hun- 
dred times  I  have  taken  the  characterless  cap  from 
my  mother's  head  and  put  the  mutch  in  its  place 
and  tied  the  bands  beneath  her  chin,  while  she 
protested  but  was  well  pleased.  For  in  her  heart 
she  knew  what  suited  her  best,  and  would  admit  it, 
beaming,  when  I  put  a  mirror  into  her  hands  and 
told  her  to  look ;  but  nevertheless  the  cap  cost  no 

279 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

less  than  so  and  so,  whereas Was  that  a 

knock  at  the  door?  She  is  gone,  to  put  on  her 
cap! 

She  begins  the  day  by  the  fireside  with  the  New 
Testament  in  her  hands,  an  old  volume  with  its 
loose  pages  beautifully  refixed,  and  its  covers  sewn 
and  resewn  by  her,  so  that  you  would  say  it  can 
never  fall  to  pieces.  It  is  mine  now,  and  to  me 
the  black  threads  with  which  she  stitched  it  are  as 
part  of  the  contents.  Other  books  she  read  in  the 
ordinary  manner,  but  this  one  differently,  her  lips 
moving  with  each  word  as  if  she  were  reading 
aloud,  and  her  face  very  solemn.  The  Testament 
lies  open  on  her  lap  long  after  she  has  ceased  to 
read,  and  the  expression  of  her  face  has  not  changed. 

I  have  seen  her  reading  other  books  early  in  the 
day,  but  never  without  a  guilty  look  on  her  face, 
for  she  thought  reading  was  scarce  respectable 
until  night  had  come.  She  spends  the  forenoon 
in  what  she  calls  doing  nothing,  which  may  con- 
sist in  stitching  so  hard  that  you  would  swear  she 
was  an  over-worked  seamstress  at  it  for  her  life,  or 
you  will  find  her  on  a  table  with  nails  in  her  mouth, 
and  anon  she  has  to  be  chased  from  the  garret  (she 
has  suddenly  decided  to  change  her  curtains),  or 
she  is  under  the  bed  searching  for  bandboxes  and 
asking  sternly  where  we  have  put  that  bonnet. 
On  the  whole,  she  is  behaving  in  a  most  exemplary 
way  to-day  (not  once  have  we  caught  her  trying 

280 


A   DAY   OF   HER   LIFE 

to  go  out  into  the  washing-house),  and  we  compli- 
ment her  at  dinner-time,  partly  because  she  de- 
serves it,  and  partly  to  make  her  think  herself  so 
good  that  she  will  eat  something,  just  to  maintain 
her  new  character.  I  question  whether  one  hour 
of  all  her  life  was  given  to  thoughts  of  food;  in 
her  great  days  to  eat  seemed  to  her  to  be  waste  of 
time,  and  afterwards  she  only  ate  to  boast  of  it,  as 
something  she  had  done  to  please  us.  She  seldom 
remembered  whether  she  had  dined,  but  always 
presumed  she  had,  and  while  she  was  telling  me 
in  all  good  faith  what  the  meal  consisted  of,  it 
might  be  brought  in.  When  in  London  I  had  to 
hear  daily  what  she  was  eating,  and  perhaps  she 
had  refused  all  dishes  until  they  produced  the  pen 
and  ink.  These  were  flourished  before  her,  and 
then  she  would  say  with  a  sigh,  "Tell  him  I  am  to 
eat  an  egg."  But  they  were  not  so  easily  deceived ; 
they  waited,  pen  in  hand,  until  the  egg  was  eaten. 
She  never  "  went  for  a  walk  "  in  her  life.  Many 
long  trudges  she  had  as  a  girl  when  she  carried 
her  father's  dinner  in  a  flaggon  to  the  country 
place  where  he  was  at  work,  but  to  walk  with  no 
end  save  the  good  of  your  health  seemed  a  very 
droll  proceeding  to  her.  In  her  young  days,  she 
was  positive,  no  one  had  ever  gone  for  a  walk, 
and  she  never  lost  the  belief  that  it  was  an  ab- 
surdity introduced  by  a  new  generation  with  too 
much  time  on  their  hands.  That  they  enjoyed  it 

281 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

she  could  not  believe ;  it  was  merely  a  form  of 
showing  off,  and  as  they  passed  her  window  she 
would  remark  to  herself  with  blasting  satire,  "Ay, 
Jeames,  are  you  off  for  your  walk  ? "  and  add 
fervently,  "  Rather  you  than  me ! "  I  was  one  of 
those  who  walked,  and  though  she  smiled,  and 
might  drop  a  sarcastic  word  when  she  saw  me  put- 
ting on  my  boots,  it  was  she  who  had  heated  them 
in  preparation  for  my  going.  The  arrangement 
between  us  was  that  she  should  lie  down  until  my 
return,  and  to  ensure  its  being  carried  out  I  saw 
her  in  bed  before  I  started ;  but  with  the  bang  of 
the  door  she  would  be  at  the  window  to  watch 
me  go:  there  is  one  spot  on  the  road  where  a 
thousand  times  I  have  turned  to  wave  my  stick  to 
her,  while  she  nodded  and  smiled  and  kissed  her 
hand  to  me.  That  kissing  of  the  hand  was  the 
one  English  custom  she  had  learned. 

In  an  hour  or  so  I  return,  and  perhaps  find  her 
in  bed,  according  to  promise,  but  still  I  am  suspi- 
cious. The  way  to  her  detection  is  circuitous. 

"  I'll  need  to  be  rising  now,"  she  says,  with  a 
yawn  that  may  be  genuine. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  in  bed  ?  " 

"  You  saw  me  go." 

"  And  then  I  saw  you  at  the  window.  Did  you 
go  straight  back  to  bed  ?  " 

"  Surely  I  had  that  much  sense." 

"  The  truth ! " 

282 


A   DAY   OF   HER   LIFE 

"  I  might  have  taken  a  look  at  the  clock  first." 

"  It  is  a  terrible  thing  to  have  a  mother  who 
prevaricates.  Have  you  been  lying  down  ever 
since  I  left?" 

"  Thereabout." 

"  What  does  that  mean  exactly  ?  " 

"Off  and  on." 

"  Have  you  been  to  the  garret  *? " 

"  What  should  I  do  in  the  garret  ?  " 

"  But  have  you  *?  " 

"  I  might  just  have  looked  up  the  garret  stair." 

"  You  have  been  redding  up  the  garret  again !  " 

"  Not  what  you  could  call  a  redd  up." 

"  O,  woman,  woman,  I  believe  you  have  not 
been  in  bed  at  all ! " 

"  You  see  me  in  it." 

"  My  opinion  is  that  you  jumped  into  bed  when 
you  heard  me  open  the  door." 

"  Havers." 

"  Did  you  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Well,  then,  when  you  heard  me  at  the  gate  ?  " 

"  It  might  have  been  when  I  heard  you  at  the 
gate." 

As  daylight  goes  she  follows  it  with  her  sewing 
to  the  window,  and  gets  another  needleful  out  of 
it,  as  one  may  run  after  a  departed  visitor  for  a  last 
word ;  but  now  the  gas  is  lit,  and  no  longer  is  it 
shameful  to  sit  down  to  literature.  If  the  book  be 

283 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

a  story  by  George  Eliot  or  Mrs.  Oliphant,  her 
favourite  (and  mine)  among  women  novelists,  or 
if  it  be  a  Carlyle,  and  we  move  softly,  she  will 
read,  entranced,  for  hours.  Her  delight  in  Car- 
lyle was  so  well  known  that  various  good  people 
would  send  her  books  that  contained  a  page  about 
him ;  she  could  place  her  finger  on  any  passage 
wanted  in  the  biography  as  promptly  as  though 
she  were  looking  for  some  article  in  her  own 
drawer,  and  given  a  date  she  was  often  able  to  tell 
you  what  they  were  doing  in  Cheyne  Row  that  day. 
Carlyle,  she  decided,  was  not  so  much  an  ill  man 
to  live  with  as  one  who  needed  a  deal  of  manag- 
ing; but  when  I  asked  if  she  thought  she  could 
have  managed  him  she  only  replied  with  a  modest 
smile  that  meant  "  Oh,  no !  "  but  had  the  face  of 
"  Sal,  I  would  have  liked  to  try." 

One  lady  lent  her  some  scores  of  Carlyle  letters 
that  have  never  been  published,  and  crabbed  was 
the  writing;  but  though  my  mother  liked  to  have 
our  letters  read  aloud  to  her,  she  read  every  one 
of  these  herself,  and  would  quote  from  them  in 
her  talk.  Side  by  side  with  the  Carlyle  letters, 
which  show  him  in  his  most  gracious  light,  were 
many  from  his  wife  to  a  friend,  and  in  one  of 
these  a  romantic  adventure  is  described  —  I  quote 
from  memory,  and  it  is  a  poor  memory  compared 
to  my  mother's,  which  registered  everything  by  a 
method  of  her  own :  "  What  might  be  the  age  of 

284 


A   DAY   OF   HER   LIFE 

Bell  Tibbits?  Well,  she  was  born  the  week  I 
bought  the  boiler,  so  she'll  be  one-and-fifty  (no 
less !)  come  Martinmas."  Mrs.  Carlyle  had  got 
into  the  train  at  a  London  station  and  was  feeling 
very  lonely,  for  the  journey  to  Scotland  lay  before 
her  and  no  one  had  come  to  see  her  off.  Then, 
just  as  the  train  was  starting,  a  man  jumped  into 
the  carriage  :  to  her  regret  until  she  saw  his  face, 
when,  behold,  they  were  old  friends,  and  the  last 
time  they  met  (I  forget  how  many  years  before) 
he  had  asked  her  to  be  his  wife.  He  was  very 
nice,  and,  if  I  remember  aright,  saw  her  to  her 
journey's  end,  though  he  had  intended  to  alight 
at  some  half-way  place.  I  call  this  an  adventure, 
and  I  am  sure  it  seemed  to  my  mother  to  be  the 
most  touching  and  memorable  adventure  that  can 
come  into  a  woman's  life.  "  You  see  he  hadna 
forgot,"  she  would  say  proudly,  as  if  this  was  a 
compliment  in  which  all  her  sex  could  share,  and 
on  her  old  tender  face  shone  some  of  the  elation 
with  which  Mrs.  Carlyle  wrote  that  letter. 

But  there  were  times,  she  held,  when  Carlyle 
must  have  made  his  wife  a  glorious  woman.  "As 
when?"  I  might  inquire. 

"  When  she  keeked  in  at  his  study  door  and 
said  to  herself,  '  The  whole  world  is  ringing  with 
his  fame,  and  he  is  my  man  ! ' ''' 

"And  then,"  I  might  point  out,  "he  would  roar 
to  her  to  shut  the  door." 

285 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

"  Pooh,"  said  my  mother,  "  a  man's  roar  is 
neither  here  nor  there."  But  her  verdict  as  a 
whole  was,  "  I  would  rather  have  been  his  mother 
than  his  wife." 

So  we  have  got  her  into  her  chair  with  the  Car- 
lyles,  and  all  is  well.  Furthermore,  "  to  mak  sic- 
car,"  my  father  has  taken  the  opposite  side  of  the 
fireplace  and  is  deep  in  the  latest  five  columns  of 
Gladstone,  who  is  his  Carlyle.  He  is  to  see  that 
she  does  not  slip  away  fired  by  a  conviction,  which 
suddenly  over-rides  her  pages,  that  the  kitchen  is 
going  to  rack  and  ruin  for  want  of  her,  and  she  is 
to  recall  him  to  himself  should  he  put  his  foot  in 
the  fire  and  keep  it  there,  forgetful  of  all  save  his 
hero's  eloquence.  (We  were  a  family  who  needed 
a  deal  of  watching.)  She  is  not  interested  in  what 
Mr.  Gladstone  has  to  say;  indeed  she  could  never 
be  brought  to  look  upon  politics  as  of  serious  con- 
cern for  grown  folk  (a  class  in  which  she  scarcely 
included  man),  and  she  gratefully  gave  up  reading 
"  leaders "  the  day  I  ceased  to  write  them.  But 
like  want  of  reasonableness,  a  love  for  having  the 
last  word,  want  of  humour  and  the  like,  politics 
were  in  her  opinion  a  mannish  attribute  to  be  tol- 
erated, and  Gladstone  was  the  name  of  the  some- 
thing which  makes  all  our  sex  such  queer  char- 
acters. She  had  a  profound  faith  in  him  as  an 
aid  to  conversation,  and  if  there  were  silent  men 
in  the  company  would  give  him  to  them  to  talk 

286 


A   DAY   OF   HER   LIFE 

about,  precisely  as  she  divided  a  cake  among  chil- 
dren. And  then,  with  a  motherly  smile,  she  would 
leave  them  to  gorge  on  him.  But  in  the  idolising 
of  Gladstone  she  recognised,  nevertheless,  a  cer- 
tain inevitability,  and  would  no  more  have  tried 
to  contend  with  it  than  to  sweep  a  shadow  off  the 
floor.  Gladstone  was,  and  there  was  an  end  of  it 
in  her  practical  philosophy.  Nor  did  she  accept 
him  coldly;  like  a  true  woman  she  sympathised 
with  those  who  suffered  severely,  and  they  knew 
it  and  took  counsel  of  her  in  the  hour  of  need.  I 
remember  one  ardent  Gladstonian  who,  as  a  gen- 
eral election  drew  near,  was  in  sore  straits  indeed, 
for  he  disbelieved  in  Home  Rule,  and  yet  how 
could  he  vote  against  "Gladstone's  man"?  His 
distress  was  so  real  that  it  gave  him  a  hang-dog 
appearance.  He  put  his  case  gloomily  before  her, 
and  until  the  day  of  the  election  she  riddled  him 
with  sarcasm ;  I  think  he  only  went  to  her  because 
he  found  a  mournful  enjoyment  in  seeing  a  false 
Gladstonian  tortured. 

It  was  all  such  plain  sailing  for  him,  she  pointed 
out;  he  did  not  like  this  Home  Rule,  and  there- 
fore he  must  vote  against  it. 

She  put  it  pitiful  clear,  he  replied  with  a  groan. 

But  she  was  like  another  woman  to  him  when 
he  appeared  before  her  on  his  way  to  the  polling- 
booth. 

"  This  is  a  watery  Sabbath  to  you,  I'm  think- 
287 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

ing,"  she  said  sympathetically,  but  without  drop- 
ping her  wires  —  for,  Home  Rule  or  no  Home 
Rule,  that  stocking-foot  must  be  turned  before 
twelve  o'clock. 

A  watery  Sabbath  means  a  doleful  day,  and 
"A  watery  Sabbath  it  is,"  he  replied  with  feeling. 
A  silence  followed,  broken  only  by  the  click  of 
the  wires.  Now  and  again  he  would  mutter, 
"Ay,  well,  I'll  be  going  to  vote  —  little  did  I 
think  the  day  would  come,"  and  so  on ;  but  if  he 
rose  it  was  only  to  sit  down  again,  and  at  last  she 
crossed  over  to  him  and  said  softly  (no  sarcasm 
in  her  voice  now),  "Away  with  you,  and  vote  for 
Gladstone's  man!"  He  jumped  up  and  made  off" 
without  a  word,  but  from  the  east  window  we 
watched  him  strutting  down  the  brae.  I  laughed, 
but  she  said,  "I'm  no  sure  that  it's  a  laughing 
matter,"  and  afterwards,  "  I  would  have  liked  fine 
to  be  that  Gladstone's  mother." 

It  is  nine  o'clock  now,  a  quarter  past  nine,  half- 
past  nine  —  all  the  same  moment  to  me,  for  I  am 
at  a  sentence  that  will  not  write.  I  know,  though 
I  can't  hear,  what  my  sister  has  gone  upstairs  to 
say  to  my  mother : 

"  I  was  in  at  him  at  nine,  and  he  said,  '  In  five 
minutes,'  so  I  put  the  steak  on  the  brander,  but 
I've  been  in  thrice  since  then,  and  every  time  he 
says,  '  In  five  minutes,'  and  when  I  try  to  take 
the  table-cover  off,  he  presses  his  elbows  hard  on 

288 


A   DAY   OF   HER   LIFE 

it,  and  growls.  His  supper  will  be  completely 
spoilt." 

"  Oh,  that  weary  writing ! " 

"  I  can  do  no  more,  mother,  so  you  must  come 
down  and  stop  him." 

"  I  have  no  power  over  him,"  my  mother  says, 
but  she  rises  smiling,  and  presently  she  is  opening 
my  door. 

"In  five  minutes!"  I  cry,  but  when  I  see  that 
it  is  she  I  rise  and  put  my  arm  round  her.  "  What 
a  full  basket ! "  she  says,  looking  at  the  waste- 
paper  basket  which  contains  most  of  my  work  of 
the  night,  and  with  a  dear  gesture  she  lifts  up  a 
torn  page  and  kisses  it.  "  Poor  thing,"  she  says 
to  it,  "  and  you  would  have  liked  so  fine  to  be 
printed ! "  and  she  puts  her  hand  over  my  desk  to 
prevent  my  writing  more. 

"  In  the  last  five  minutes,"  I  begin,  "  one  can 
often  do  more  than  in  the  first  hour." 

"  Many  a  time  I've  said  it  in  my  young  days," 
she  says  slowly. 

"  And  proved  it,  too ! "  cries  a  voice  from  the 
door,  the  voice  of  one  who  was  prouder  of  her 
even  than  I ;  it  is  true,  and  yet  almost  unbeliev- 
able, that  any  one  could  have  been  prouder  of  her 
than  I. 

"  But  those  days  are  gone,"  my  mother  says 
solemnly,  "gone  to  come  back  no  more.  You'll 
put  by  your  work  now,  man,  and  have  your  sup- 

289 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

per,  and  then  you'll  come  up  and  sit  beside  your 
mother  for  a  whiley,  for  soon  you'll  be  putting 
her  away  in  the  kirk-yard." 

I  hear  such  a  little  cry  from  near  the  door. 

So  my  mother  and  I  go  up  the  stair  together. 
"We  have  changed  places,"  she  says;  "that  was 
just  how  I  used  to  help  you  up,  but  I'm  the  bairn 
now." 

She  brings  out  the  Testament  again ;  it  was  al- 
ways lying  within  reach ;  it  is  the  lock  of  hair  she 
left  me  when  she  died.  And  when  she  has  read 
for  a  long  time  she  "  gives  me  a  look,"  as  we  say 
in  the  north,  and  I  go  out,  to  leave  her  alone  with 
God.  She  had  been  but  a  child  when  her  mother 
died,  and  so  she  fell  early  into  the  way  of  saying 
her  prayers  with  no  earthly  listener.  Often  and 
often  I  have  found  her  on  her  knees,  but  I  always 
went  softly  away,  closing  the  door.  I  never  heard 
her  pray,  but  I  know  very  well  how  she  prayed, 
and  that,  when  that  door  was  shut,  there  was  not 
a  day  in  God's  sight  between  the  worn  woman  and 
the  little  child. 


290 


CHAPTER  VI 

HER   MAID   OF   ALL   WORK 

AND  sometimes  I  was  her  maid  of  all  work. 

It  is  early  morn,  and  my  mother  has  come  noise- 
lessly into  my  room.  I  know  it  is  she,  though 
my  eyes  are  shut,  and  I  am  only  half  awake.  Per- 
haps I  was  dreaming  of  her,  for  I  accept  her  pres- 
ence without  surprise,  as  if  in  the  awakening  I  had 
but  seen  her  go  out  at  one  door  to  come  in  at  an- 
other. But  she  is  speaking  to  herself. 

"  I'm  sweer  to  waken  him  —  I  doubt  he  was 
working  late  —  oh,  that  weary  writing  —  no,  I 
maunna  waken  him." 

I  start  up.  She  is  wringing  her  hands.  "  What 
is  wrong  ?  "  I  cry,  but  I  know  before  she  answers. 
My  sister  is  down  with  one  of  the  headaches  against 
which  even  she  cannot  fight,  and  my  mother,  who 
bears  physical  pain  as  if  it  were  a  comrade,  is  most 
woe-begone  when  her  daughter  is  the  sufferer. 
"  And  she  winna  let  me  go  down  the  stair  to  make 
a  cup  of  tea  for  her,"  she  groans. 

•*  I  will  soon  make  the  tea,  mother." 

"  Will  you  *?  "  she  says  eagerly.  It  is  what  she 
291 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

has  come  to  me  for,  but  "  It  is  a  pity  to  rouse  you," 
she  says. 

"And  I  will  take  charge  of  the  house  to-day, 
and  light  the  fires  and  wash  the  dishes  - 

"  Na,  oh,  no ;  no,  I  couldna  ask  that  of  you,  and 
you  an  author." 

"  It  won't  be  the  first  time,  mother,  since  I  was 
an  author." 

"  More  like  the  fiftieth  !  "  she  says  almost  glee- 
fully, so  I  have  begun  well,  for  to  keep  up  her 
spirits  is  the  great  thing  to-day. 

Knock  at  the  door.  It  is  the  baker.  I  take  in 
the  bread,  looking  so  sternly  at  him  that  he  dare 
not  smile. 

Knock  at  the  door.  It  is  the  postman.  (I  hope 
he  did  not  see  that  I  had  the  lid  of  the  kettle  in 
my  other  hand.) 

Furious  knocking  in  a  remote  part.  This  means 
that  the  author  is  in  the  coal-cellar. 

Anon  I  carry  two  breakfasts  upstairs  in  triumph. 
I  enter  the  bedroom  like  no  mere  humdrum  son, 
but  after  the  manner  of  the  Glasgow  waiter.  I 
must  say  more  about  him.  He  had  been  my 
mother's  one  waiter,  the  only  man-servant  she  ever 
came  in  contact  with,  and  they  had  met  in  a  Glas- 
gow hotel  which  she  was  eager  to  see,  having 
heard  of  the  monstrous  things,  and  conceived  them 
to  resemble  country  inns  with  another  twelve  bed- 
rooms. I  remember  how  she  beamed — yet  tried 

2Q2 


HER   MAID   OF   ALL   WORK 

to  look  as  if  it  was  quite  an  ordinary  experience — • 
when  we  alighted  at  the  hotel  door,  but  though  she 
said  nothing  I  soon  read  disappointment  in  her  face. 
She  knew  how  I  was  exulting  in  having  her  there, 
so  would  not  say  a  word  to  damp  me,  but  I  craft- 
ily drew  it  out  of  her.  No,  she  was  very  com- 
fortable, and  the  house  was  grand  beyond  speech, 
but  —  but  —  where  was  he  *?  he  had  not  been  very 
hearty.  "  He "  was  the  landlord ;  she  had  ex- 
pected him  to  receive  us  at  the  door  and  ask  if 
we  were  in  good  health  and  how  we  had  left  the 
others,  and  then  she  would  have  asked  him  if  his 
wife  was  well  and  how  many  children  they  had, 
after  which  we  should  have  all  sat  down  together 
to  dinner.  Two  chambermaids  came  into  her 
room  and  prepared  it  without  a  single  word  to 
her  about  her  journey  or  on  any  other  subject,  and 
when  they  had  gone,  "  They  are  two  haughty 
misses,"  said  my  mother  with  spirit.  But  what 
she  most  resented  was  the  waiter  with  his  swagger 
black  suit  and  short  quick  steps  and  the  "  towel '' 
over  his  arm.  Without  so  much  as  a  "  Welcome 
to  Glasgow ! "  he  showed  us  to  our  seats,  not  the 
smallest  acknowledgment  of  our  kindness  in  giv- 
ing such  munificent  orders  did  we  draw  from  him, 
he  hovered  around  the  table  as  if  It  would  be  un- 
safe to  leave  us  with  his  knives  and  forks  (he 
should  have  seen  her  knives  and  forks),  when  we 
spoke  to  each  other  he  affected  not  to  hear,  we 

293 


.MARGARET   OGILVY 

might  laugh,  but  this  uppish  fellow  would  not 
join  in,  we  retired,  crushed,  and  he  had  the  final 
impudence  to  open  the  door  for  us.  But  though 
this  hurt  my  mother  at  the  time,  the  humour  of 
our  experiences  filled  her  on  reflection,  and  in  her 
own  house  she  would  describe  them  with  unction, 
sometimes  to  those  who  had  been  in  many  hotels, 
often  to  others  who  had  been  in  none,  and  who- 
ever were  her  listeners  she  made  them  laugh,  though 
not  always  at  the  same  thing. 

So  now  when  I  enter  the  bedroom  with  the  tray, 
on  my  arm  is  that  badge  of  pride,  the  towel;  and 
I  approach  with  prim  steps  to  inform  Madam  that 
breakfast  is  ready,  and  she  puts  on  the  society 
manner  and  addresses  me  as  "  Sir,"  and  asks  with 
cruel  sarcasm  for  what  purpose  (except  to  boast)  I 
carry  the  towel,  and  I  say,  "  Is  there  anything  more 
I  can  do  for  Madam  *?  "  and  Madam  replies  that 
there  is  one  more  thing  I  can  do,  and  that  is,  eat 
her  breakfast  for  her.  But  of  this  I  take  no  notice, 
for  my  object  is  to  fire  her  with  the  spirit  of  the 
game,  so  that  she  eats  unwittingly. 

Now  that  I  have  washed  up  the  breakfast  things 
I  should  be  at  my  writing,  and  I  am  anxious  to  be 
at  it,  as  I  have  an  idea  in  my  head,  which,  if  it  is 
of  any  value,  has  almost  certainly  been  put  there 
by  her.  But  dare  I  venture?  I  know  that  the 
house  has  not  been  properly  set  going  yet,  there  are 
beds  to  make,  the  exterior  of  the  teapot  is  fair,  but 

294 


HER  MAID   OF  ALL   WORK 

suppose  some  one  were  to  look  inside  *?  What  a 
pity  I  knocked  over  the  flour-barrel !  Can  I  hope 
that  for  once  my  mother  will  forget  to  inquire  into 
these  matters  ?  Is  my  sister  willing  to  let  disor- 
der reign  until  to-morrow  ?  I  determine  to  risk  it. 
Perhaps  I  have  been  at  work  for  half-an-hour 
when  I  hear  movements  overhead.  One  or  other 
of  them  is  wondering  why  the  house  is  so  quiet. 
I  rattle  the  tongs,  but  even  this  does  not  satisfy 
them,  so  back  into  the  desk  go  my  papers,  and 
now  what  you  hear  is  not  the  scrape  of  a  pen,  but 
the  rinsing  of  pots  and  pans,  or  I  am  making  beds, 
and  making  them  thoroughly,  because  after  I  am 
gone  my  mother  will  come  (I  know  her)  and  look 
suspiciously  beneath  the  coverlet. 

The  kitchen  is  now  speckless,  not  an  unwashed 
platter  in  sight,  unless  you  look  beneath  the  table. 
I  feel  that  I  have  earned  time  for  an  hour's  writing 
at  last,  and  at  it  I  go  with  vigour.  One  page,  two 
pages,  really  I  am  making  progress,  when  —  was 
that  a  door  opening?  But  I  have  my  mother's 
light  step  on  the  brain,  so  I  "  yoke  "  again,  and 
next  moment  she  is  beside  me.  She  has  not  ex- 
actly left  her  room,  she  gives  me  to  understand; 
but  suddenly  a  conviction  had  come  to  her  that  I 
was  writing  without  a  warm  mat  at  my  feet.  She 
carries  one  in  her  hands.  Now  that  she  is  here,  she 
remains  for  a  time,  and  though  she  is  in  the  arm- 
chair by  the  fire,  where  she  sits  bolt  upright  (she 

295 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

loved  to  have  cushions  on  the  unused  chairs,  but 
detested  putting  her  back  against  them),  and  I  am 
bent  low  over  my  desk,  I  know  that  contentment 
and  pity  are  struggling  for  possession  of  her  face : 
contentment  wins  when  she  surveys  her  room,  pity 
when  she  looks  at  me.  Every  article  of  furniture, 
from  the  chairs  that  came  into  the  world  with  me 
and  have  worn  so  much  better,  though  I  was  new 
and  they  were  second-hand,  to  the  mantel-border 
of  fashionable  design  which  she  sewed  in  her 
seventieth  year,  having  picked  up  the  stitch  in  half 
a  lesson,  has  its  story  of  fight  and  attainment  for 
her,  hence  her  satisfaction ;  but  she  sighs  at  sight 
of  her  son,  dipping  and  tearing,  and  chewing  the 
loathly  pen. 

"  Oh,  that  weary  writing ! " 

In  vain  do  I  tell  her  that  writing  is  as  pleasant 
to  me  as  ever  was  the  prospect  of  a  tremendous 
day's  ironing  to  her ;  that  (to  some,  though  not  to 
me)  new  chapters  are  as  easy  to  turn  out  as  new 
bannocks.  No,  she  maintains,  for  one  bannock 
is  the  marrows  of  another,  while  chapters  —  and 
then,  perhaps,  her  eyes  twinkle,  and  says  she 
saucily,  "  But,  sal,  you  may  be  right,  for  some- 
times your  bannocks  are  as  alike  as  mine ! " 

Or  I  may  be  roused  from  my  writing  by  her 
cry  that  I  am  making  strange  faces  again.  It  is 
my  contemptible  weakness  that  if  I  say  a  char- 
acter smiled  vacuously,  I  must  smile  vacuously; 

296 


HER   MAID   OF   ALL   WORK 

if  he  frowns  or  leers,  I  frown  or  leer ;  if  he  is  a 
coward  or  given  to  contortions,  I  cringe,  or  twist 
my  legs  until  I  have  to  stop  writing  to  undo  the 
knot.  I  bow  with  him,  eat  with  him,  and  gnaw 
my  moustache  with  him.  If  the  character  be  a 
lady  with  an  exquisite  laugh,  I  suddenly  terrify 
you  by  laughing  exquisitely.  One  reads  of  the 
astounding  versatility  of  an  actor  who  is  stout  and 
lean  on  the  same  evening,  but  what  is  he  to  the 
novelist  who  is  a  dozen  persons  within  the  hour? 
Morally,  I  fear,  we  must  deteriorate  —  but  this  is 
a  subject  I  may  wisely  edge  away  from. 

We  always  spoke  to  each  other  in  broad  Scotch 
(I  think  in  it  still),  but  now  and  again  she  would 
use  a  word  that  was  new  to  me,  or  I  might  hear 
one  of  her  contemporaries  use  it.  Now  is  my  op- 
portunity to  angle  for  its  meaning.  If  I  ask, 
boldly,  what  was  that  word  she  used  just  now, 
something  like  "bilbie"  or  "silvendy'"?  she 
blushes,  and  says  she  never  said  anything  so  com- 
mon, or  hoots,  it  is  some  auld-farrant  word  about 
which  she  can  tell  me  nothing.  But  if  in  the 
course  of  conversation  I  remark  casually,  "  Did 
he  find  bilbie  "?  "  or  "  Was  that  quite  silvendy  ?  " 
(though  the  sense  of  the  question  is  vague  to  me) 
she  falls  into  the  trap,  and  the  words  explain 
themselves  in  her  replies.  Or  maybe  to-day  she 
sees  whither  I  am  leading  her,  and  such  is  her  sen- 
sitiveness that  she  is  quite  hurt.  The  humour 

297 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

goes  out  of  her  face  (to  find  bilbie  in  some  more 
silvendy  spot),  and  her  reproachful  eyes  —  but 
now  I  am  on  the  arm  of  her  chair,  and  we  have 
made  it  up.  Nevertheless,  I  shall  get  no  more 
old-world  Scotch  out  of  her  this  forenoon,  she 
weeds  her  talk  determinedly,  and  it  is  as  great  a 
falling  away  as  when  the  mutch  gives  place  to 
the  cap. 

I  am  off  for  my  afternoon  walk,  and  she  has 
promised  to  bar  the  door  behind  me  and  open  it 
to  none.  When  I  return, — well,  the  door  is  still 
barred,  but  she  is  looking  both  furtive  and  elated. 
I  should  say  that  she  is  burning  to  tell  me  some- 
thing, but  cannot  tell  it  without  exposing  herself. 
Has  she  opened  the  door,  and  if  so,  why  ?  I  don't 
ask,  but  I  watch.  It  is  she  who  is  sly  now : 

"  Have  you  been  in  the  east  room  since  you 
came  in '? "  she  asks  with  apparent  indifference. 

**  No ;  why  do  you  ask  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  just  thought  you  might  have  looked  in." 

"  Is  there  anything  new  there  ?  " 

"  I  dinna  say  there  is,  but — but  just  go  and  see." 

"  There  can't  be  anything  new  if  you  kept  the 
door  barred,"  I  say  cleverly. 

This  crushes  her  for  a  moment ;  but  her  eager- 
ness that  I  should  see  is  greater  than  her  fear.  I 
set  off  for  the  east  room,  and  she  follows,  affecting 
humility,  but  with  triumph  in  her  eye.  How  of- 
ten those  little  scenes  took  place !  I  was  never 

208 


HER  MAID   OF  ALL  WORK 

told  of  the  new  purchase,  I  was  lured  into  its 
presence,  and  then  she  waited  timidly  for  my  start 
of  surprise. 

"  Do  you  see  it  ?  "  she  says  anxiously,  and  I  see 
it,  and  hear  it,  for  this  time  it  is  a  bran-new  wicker 
chair,  of  the  kind  that  whisper  to  themselves  for 
the  first  six  months. 

"  A  going-about  body  was  selling  them  in  a 
cart,"  my  mother  begins,  and  what  followed  pre- 
sents itself  to  my  eyes  before  she  can  utter  another 
word.  Ten  minutes  at  the  least  did  she  stand  at 
the  door  argybargying  with  that  man.  But  it 
would  be  cruelty  to  scold  a  woman  so  uplifted. 

"  Fifteen  shillings  he  wanted,"  she  cries,  "  but 
what  do  you  think  I  beat  him  down  to?" 

"  Seven  and  sixpence  ?  " 

She  clasps  her  hands  with  delight.  "  Four  shil- 
lings, as  I  'm  a  living  woman ! "  she  crows  :  never 
was  a  woman  fonder  of  a  bargain. 

I  gaze  at  the  purchase  with  the  amazement  ex- 
pected of  me,  and  the  chair  itself  crinkles  and 
shudders  to  hear  what  it  went  for  (or  is  it  merely 
chuckling  at  her?).  "And  the  man  said  it  cost 
himself  five  shillings,"  my  mother  continues  ex- 
ultantly. You  would  have  thought  her  the  hard- 
est person  had  not  a  knock  on  the  wall  summoned 
us  about  this  time  to  my  sister's  side.  Though  in 
bed,  she  has  been  listening,  and  this  is  what  she 
has  to  say,  in  a  voice  that  makes  my  mother  very 

299 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

indignant,  "  You  drive  a  bargain !  I  'm  thinking 
ten  shillings  was  nearer  what  you  paid." 

"  Four  shillings  to  a  penny ! "  says  my  mother. 

"I  daresay,"  says  my  sister;  "but  after  you 
paid  him  the  money  I  heard  you  in  the  little  bed- 
room press.  What  were  you  doing  there  *?  " 

My  mother  winces.  "  I  may  have  given  him 
a  present  of  an  old  top-coat,"  she  falters.  "  He 
looked  ill-happit.  But  that  was  after  I  made  the 
bargain." 

"  Were  there  bairns  in  the  cart  *?  " 

"There  might  have  been  a  bit  lassie  in  the 
cart." 

"  I  thought  as  much.  What  did  you  give  her  *? 
I  heard  you  in  the  pantry." 

"  Four  shillings  was  what  I  got  that  chair  for," 
replies  my  mother  firmly.  If  I  don't  interfere 
there  will  be  a  coldness  between  them  for  at  least 
a  minute.  "  There  is  blood  on  your  finger,"  I 
say  to  my  mother. 

"So  there  is,"  she  says,  concealing  her  hand. 

"  Blood ! "  exclaims  my  sister  anxiously,  and 
then  with  a  cry  of  triumph,  "  I  warrant  it's  jelly. 
You  gave  that  lassie  one  of  the  jelly-cans  ! " 

The  Glasgow  waiter  brings  up  tea,  and  presently 
my  sister  is  able  to  rise,  and  after  a  sharp  fight 
I  am  expelled  from  the  kitchen.  The  last  thing  I 
do  as  maid  of  all  work  is  to  lug  upstairs  the  clothes- 
basket  which  has  just  arrived  with  the  mangling. 

300 


HER   MAID   OF  ALL   WORK 

Nowthere  is  delicious  linen  for  my  mother  to  finger; 
there  was  always  rapture  on  her  face  when  the 
clothes-basket  came  in;  it  never  failed  to  make  her 
once  more  the  active  genius  of  the  house.  I  may 
leave  her  now  with  her  sheets  and  collars  and  nap- 
kins and  fronts.  Indeed,  she  probably  orders  me 
to  go.  A  son  is  all  very  well,  but  suppose  he  were 
to  tread  on  that  counterpane ! 

My  sister  is  but  and  I  am  ben  —  I  mean  she  is 
in  the  east  end  and  I  am  in  the  west  —  tuts,  tuts, 
let  us  get  at  the  English  of  this  by  striving:  she  is 
in  the  kitchen  and  I  am  at  my  desk  in  the  parlour. 
I  hope  I  may  not  be  disturbed,  for  to-night  I  must 
make  my  hero  say  "  Darling,"  and  it  needs  both 
privacy  and  concentration.  In  a  word,  let  me  ad- 
mit (though  I  should  like  to  beat  about  the  bush) 
that  I  have  sat  down  to  a  love-chapter.  Too  long 
has  it  been  avoided,  Albert  has  called  Marion 
"  dear "  only  as  yet  (between  you  and  me,  these 
are  not  their  real  names),  but  though  the  public 
will  probably  read  the  word  without  blinking,  it 
went  off  in  my  hands  with  a  bang.  They  tell  me 
—  the  Sassenach  tell  me  —  that  in  time  I  shall  be 
able  without  a  blush  to  make  Albert  say  "  darling," 
and  even  gather  her  up  in  his  arms,  but  I  begin  to 
doubt  it ;  the  moment  sees  me  as  shy  as  ever ;  I 
still  find  it  advisable  to  lock  the  door,  and  then  — 
no  witness  save  the  dog — I  "do  "  it  dourly  with  my 
teeth  clenched,  while  the  dog  retreats  into  the  far 

301 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

corner  and  moans.  The  bolder  Englishman  (I 
am  told)  will  write  a  love-chapter  and  then  go  out, 
quite  coolly,  to  dinner,  but  such  goings  on  are 
contrary  to  the  Scotch  nature;  even  the  great 
novelists  dared  not.  Conceive  Mr.  Stevenson  left 
alone  with  a  hero,  a  heroine,  and  a  proposal  im- 
pending (he  does  not  know  where  to  look).  Sir 
Walter  in  the  same  circumstances  gets  out  of  the 
room  by  making  his  love-scenes  take  place  between 
the  end  of  one  chapter  and  the  beginning  of  the 
next,  but  he  could  afford  to  do  anything,  and  the 
small  fry  must  e'en  to  their  task,  moan  the  dog  as 
he  may.  So  I  have  yoked  to  mine  when,  enter  my 
mother,  looking  wistful. 

"  I  suppose  you  are  terrible  thrang,"  she  says. 

"  Weil,  I  am  rather  busy,  but  —  what  is  it  you 
want  me  to  do  *?  " 

"  It  would  be  a  shame  to  ask  you." 

*'  Still,  ask  me." 

"  I  am  so  terrified  they  may  be  filed." 

"  You  want  me  to " 

•'  If  you  would  just  come  up,  and  help  me  to 
fold  the  sheets ! " 

The  sheets  are  folded  and  I  return  to  Albert. 
I  lock  the  door  and  at  last  I  am  bringing  my  hero 
forward  nicely  (my  knee  in  the  small  of  his  back), 
when  this  startling  question  is  shot  by  my  sister 
through  the  keyhole : 

'*  Where  did  you  put  the  carrot-grater  ?  " 
302 


HER   MAID   OF   ALL   WORK 

It  will  all  have  to  be  done  over  again  if  I  let 
Albert  go  for  a  moment,  so,  gripping  him  hard,  I 
shout  indignantly  that  I  have  not  seen  the  carrot- 
grater. 

"Then  what  did  you  grate  the  carrots  on?" 
asks  the  voice,  and  the  door-handle  is  shaken  just 
as  I  shake  Albert 

"On  a  broken  cup,"  I  reply  with  surprising 
readiness,  and  I  get  to  work  again,  but  am  less  en- 
grossed, for  a  conviction  grows  on  me  that  I  put  the 
carrot-grater  in  the  drawer  of  the  sewing-machine. 

I  am  wondering  whether  I  should  confess  or 
brazen  it  out,  when  I  hear  my  sister  going  hur- 
riedly upstairs.  I  have  a  presentiment  that  she 
has  gone  to  talk  about  me,  and  I  basely  open  my 
door  and  listen. 

"  Just  look  at  that,  mother ! " 

"  Is  it  a  dish-cloth  ?  " 

"  That's  what  it  is  now." 

"  Losh  behears !  it's  one  of  the  new  table-nap- 
kins." 

"  That's  what  it  was.  He  has  been  polishing 
the  kitchen  grate  with  it !  " 

(I  remember!) 

"  Woe's  me !  That  is  what  comes  of  his  not  let- 
ting me  budge  from  this  room.  O,  it  is  a  watery 
Sabbath  when  men  take  to  doing  women's  work  !  " 

"  It  defies  the  face  of  clay,  mother,  to  fathom 
what  makes  him  so  senseless." 

3°3 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

"  Oh,  it's  that  weary  writing." 

*'  And  the  worst  of  it  is,  he  will  talk  to-morrow 
as  if  he  had  done  wonders." 

"  That's  the  way  with  the  whole  clanjamfray  of 
them." 

"Yes,  but  as  usual  you  will  humour  him, 
mother." 

"Oh,  well,  it  pleases  him,  you  see,"  says  my 
mother,  "and  we  can  have  our  laugh  when  his 
door's  shut." 

"  He  is  most  terribly  handless." 

*'  He  is  all  that,  but,  poor  soul,  he  does  his  best." 


304 


CHAPTER   VII 

R.   L.   S. 

THESE  familiar  initials  are,  I  suppose,  the  best  be- 
loved in  recent  literature,  certainly  they  are  the 
sweetest  to  me,  but  there  was  a  time  when  my 
mother  could  not  abide  them.  She  said  "That 
Stevenson  man"  with  a  sneer,  and  it  was  never 
easy  to  her  to  sneer.  At  thought  of  him  her  face 
would  become  almost  hard,  which  seems  incred- 
ible, and  she  would  knit  her  lips  and  fold  her 
arms,  and  reply  with  a  stiff  "  oh  "  if  you  mentioned 
his  aggravating  name.  In  the  novels  we  have  a 
way  of  writing  of  our  heroine,  "  she  drew  herself 
up  haughtily,"  and  when  mine  draw  themselves 
up  haughtily  I  see  my  mother  thinking  of  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson.  He  knew  her  opinion  of  him, 
and  would  write,  "My  ears  tingled  yesterday;  I 
sair  doubt  she  has  been  miscalling  me  again." 
But  the  more  she  miscalled  him  the  more  he  de- 
lighted in  her,  and  she  was  informed  of  this,  and 
at  once  said  "  The  scoundrel !  "  If  you  would 
know  what  was  his  unpardonable  crime,  it  was 
this,  he  wrote  better  books  than  mine. 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

I  remember  the  day  she  found  it  out,  which  was 
not,  however,  the  day  she  admitted  it.  That  day, 
when  I  should  have  been  at  my  work,  she  came 
upon  me  in  the  kitchen,  "The  Master  ofBallan- 
trae  "  beside  me,  but  I  was  not  reading :  my  head 
lay  heavy  on  the  table  and  to  her  anxious  eyes,  I 
doubt  not,  I  was  the  picture  of  woe.  "  Not  writ- 
ing!" I  echoed,  no,  I  was  not  writing,  I  saw  no 
use  in  ever  trying  to  write  again.  And  down,  I 
suppose,  went  my  head  once  more.  She  misun- 
derstood, and  thought  the  blow  had  fallen ;  I  had 
awakened  to  the  discovery,  always  dreaded  by 
her,  that  I  had  written  myself  dry ;  I  was  no  bet- 
ter than  an  empty  ink-bottle.  She  wrung  her 
hands,  but  indignation  came  to  her  with  my  ex- 
planation, which  was  that  while  R.  L.  S.  was  at  it 
we  others  were  only  'prentices  cutting  our  fingers 
on  his  tools.  "  I  could  never  thole  his  books," 
said  my  mother  immediately,  and  indeed  vin- 
dictively. 

"  You  have  not  read  any  of  them,"  I  reminded 
her. 

"  And  never  will,"  said  she  with  spirit. 

And  I  have  no  doubt  that  she  called  him  a 
dark  character  that  very  day.  For  weeks  too,  if 
not  for  months,  she  adhered  to  her  determination 
not  to  read  him,  though  I,  having  come  to  my 
senses  and  seen  that  there  is  a  place  for  the  'pren- 
tice, was  taking  a  pleasure,  almost  malicious,  in 

306 


R.  L.  S. 

putting  "  The  Master  of  Ballantrae  "  in  her  way. 
I  would  place  it  on  her  table  so  that  it  said  good- 
morning  to  her  when  she  rose.  She  would  frown, 
and,  carrying  it  downstairs,  as  if  she  had  it  in 
the  tongs,  replace  it  on  its  book-shelf.  I  would 
wrap  it  up  in  the  cover  she  had  made  for  the  latest 
Carlyle :  she  would  skin  it  contemptuously  and 
again  bring  it  down.  I  would  hide  her  spectacles 
in  it,  and  lay  it  on  top  of  the  clothes-basket  and 
prop  it  up  invitingly  open  against  her  tea-pot. 
And  at  last  I  got  her,  though  I  forget  by  which 
of  many  contrivances.  What  I  recall  vividly  is  a 
key-hole  view,  to  which  another  member  of  the 
family  invited  me.  Then  I  saw  my  mother 
wrapped  up  in  "  The  Master  of  Ballantrae  "  and 
muttering  the  music  to  herself,  nodding  her  head 
in  approval,  and  taking  a  stealthy  glance  at  the 
foot  of  each  page  before  she  began  at  the  top. 
Nevertheless  she  had  an  ear  for  the  door,  for  when 
I  bounced  in  she  had  been  too  clever  for  me ; 
there  was  no  book  to  be  seen,  only  an  apron  on 
her  lap  and  she  was  gazing  out  at  the  window. 
Some  such  conversation  as  this  followed : 

"  You  have  been  sitting  very  quietly,  mother." 
"  I  always  sit  quietly,  I  never  do  anything,  I'm 
just  a  finished  stocking." 

"  Have  you  been  reading  ?  " 

"  Do  I  ever  read  at  this  time  of  day  ?  " 

"  What  is  that  in  your  lap  ?  " 

3°7 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

"Just  my  apron." 

*'  Is  that  a  book  beneath  the  apron  ?  " 

"  It  might  be  a  book." 

"  Let  me  see." 

"  Go  away  with  you  to  your  work." 

But  I  lifted  the  apron.  "Why,  it's  'The 
Master  of  Ballantrae ! '  "  I  exclaimed,  shocked. 

"  So  it  is ! "  said  my  mother,  equally  surprised. 
But  I  looked  sternly  at  her,  and  perhaps  she 
blushed. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  :  not  nearly  equal  to 
mine  ?  "  said  I  with  humour. 

"Nothing  like  them,"  she  said  determinedly. 

"Not  a  bit,"  said  I,  though  whether  with  a 
smile  or  a  groan  is  immaterial;  they  would  have 
meant  the  same  thing.  Should  I  put  the  book 
back  on  its  shelf?  I  asked,  and  she  replied  that  I 
could  put  it  wherever  I  liked,  for  all  she  cared,  so 
long  as  I  took  it  out  of  her  sight  (the  implication 
was  that  it  had  stolen  on  to  her  lap  while  she  was 
looking  out  at  the  window).  My  behaviour  may 
seem  small,  but  I  gave  her  a  last  chance,  for  I  said 
that  some  people  found  it  a  book  there  was  no 
putting  down  until  they  reached  the  last  page. 

"  I'm  no  that  kind,"  replied  my  mother. 

Nevertheless  our  old  game  with  the  haver  of  a 
thing,  as  she  called  it,  was  continued,  with  this 
difference,  that  it  was  now  she  who  carried  the 
book  covertly  upstairs,  and  I  who  replaced  it  on 

308 


R.  L.  S. 

the  shelf,  and  several  times  we  caught  each  other 
in  the  act,  but  not  a  word  said  either  of  us ;  we 
were  grown  self-conscious.  Much  of  the  play 
no  doubt  I  forget,  but  one  incident  I  remember 
clearly.  She  had  come  down  to  sit  beside  me 
while  I  wrote,  and  sometimes,  when  I  looked  up, 
her  eye  was  not  on  me,  but  on  the  shelf  where 
"  The  Master  of  Ballantrae "  stood  inviting  her. 
Mr.  Stevenson's  books  are  not  for  the  shelf,  they 
are  for  the  hand ;  even  when  you  lay  them  down, 
let  it  be  on  the  table  for  the  next  comer.  Being 
the  most  sociable  that  man  has  penned  in  our 
time,  they  feel  very  lonely  up  there  in  a  stately 
row.  I  think  their  eye  is  on  you  the  moment 
you  enter  the  room,  and  so  you  are  drawn  to  look 
at  them,  and  you  take  a  volume  down  with  the 
impulse  that  induces  one  to  unchain  the  dog. 
And  the  result  is  not  dissimilar,  for  in  another 
moment  you  two  are  at  play.  Is  there  any  other 
modern  writer  who  gets  round  you  in  this  way? 
Well,  he  had  given  my  mother  the  look  which 
in  the  ball-room  means,  "Ask  me  for  this  waltz," 
and  she  ettled  to  do  it,  but  felt  that  her  more  duti- 
ful course  was  to  sit  out  the  dance  with  this  other 
less  entertaining  partner.  I  wrote  on  doggedly, 
but  could  hear  the  whispering. 

"  Am  I  to  be  a  wall-flower  ? "  asked  James 
Durie  reproachfully.  (It  must  have  been  leap- 
year.) 

3°9 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

"  Speak  lower,"  replied  my  mother,  with  an  un- 
easy look  at  me. 

"  Pooh !  "  said  James  contemptuously,  "  that 
kail-runtle ! " 

"  I  winna  have  him  miscalled,"  said  my  mother, 
frowning. 

"  I  am  done  with  him,"  said  James  (wiping  his 
cane  with  his  cambric  handkerchief),  and  his 
sword  clattered  deliciously  (I  cannot  think  this 
was  accidental),  which  made  my  mother  sigh. 
Like  the  man  he  was,  he  followed  up  his  ad- 
vantage with  a  comparison  that  made  me  dip 
viciously. 

"A  prettier  sound  that,"  said  he,  clanking  his 
sword  again,  "  than  the  clack-clack  of  your  young 
friend's  shuttle." 

"  Whist! "  cried  my  mother,  who  had  seen  me  dip. 

"  Then  give  me  your  arm,"  said  James,  lowering 
his  voice. 

"  I  dare  not,"  answered  my  mother.  "  He 's  so 
touchy  about  you." 

"Come,  come,"  he  pressed  her,  "you  are  cer- 
tain to  do  it  sooner  or  later,  so  why  not  now  *?  " 

"  Wait  till  he  has  gone  for  his  walk,"  said  my 
mother ;  "  and,  forby  that,  I'm  ower  old  to  dance 
with  you." 

"  How  old  are  you  *?  "  he  inquired. 

"  You're  gey  an'  pert ! "  cried  my  mother. 

"  Are  you  seventy  *?  " 

310 


R.  L.  S. 

"  Off  and  on,"  she  admitted. 

"  Pooh,"  he  said,  "  a  mere  girl !  " 

She  replied  instantly,  "  I  'm  no  to  be  catched 
with  chaff;  "  but  she  smiled  and  rose,  as  if  he 
had  stretched  out  his  hand  and  got  her  by  the 
finger-tip. 

After  that  they  whispered  so  low  (which  they 
could  do  as  they  were  now  much  nearer  each 
other)  that  I  could  catch  only  one  remark.  It 
came  from  James,  and  seems  to  show  the  tenor 
of  their  whisperings,  for  his  words  were,  "  Easily 
enough,  if  you  slip  me  beneath  your  shawl." 

That  is  what  she  did,  and  furthermore  she  left 
the  room  guiltily,  muttering  something  about  red- 
ding up  the  drawers.  I  suppose  I  smiled  wanly 
to  myself,  or  conscience  must  have  been  nibbling 
at  my  mother,  for  in  less  than  five  minutes  she  was 
back,  carrying  her  accomplice  openly,  and  she 
thrust  him  with  positive  viciousness  into  the  place 
where  my  Stevenson  had  lost  a  tooth  (as  the  writer 
whom  he  most  resembled  would  have  said).  And 
then  like  a  good  mother  she  took  up  one  of  her 
son's  books  and  read  it  most  determinedly.  It 
had  become  a  touching  incident  to  me,  and  I  re- 
member how  we  there  and  then  agreed  upon  a 
compromise :  she  was  to  read  the  enticing  thing 
just  to  convince  herself  of  its  inferiority. 

"  The  Master  of  Ballantrae  "  is  not  the  best. 
Conceive  the  glory,  which  was  my  mother's,  of 

311 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

knowing  from  a  trustworthy  source  that  there  are 
at  least  three  better  awaiting  you  on  the  same  shelf. 
She  did  not  know  Alan  Breck  yet,  and  he  was  as 
anxious  to  step  down  as  Mr.  Bally  himself.  John 
Silver  was  there,  getting  into  his  leg,  so  that  she 
should  not  have  to  wait  a  moment,  and  roaring, 
"  I'll  lay  to  that ! "  when  she  told  me  consolingly 
that  she  could  not  thole  pirate  stories.  Not  to 
know  these  gentlemen,  what  is  it  like  ?  It  is  like 
never  having  been  in  love.  But  they  are  in  the 
house !  That  is  like  knowing  that  you  will  fall  in 
love  to-morrow  morning.  With  one  word,  by 
drawing  one  mournful  face,  I  could  have  got  my 
mother  to  abjure  the  jam-shelf — nay,  I  might  have 
managed  it  by  merely  saying  that  she  had  enjoyed 
"  The  Master  of  Ballantrae."  For  you  must  re- 
member that  she  only  read  it  to  persuade  herself 
(and  me)  of  its  unworthiness,  and  that  the  reason 
she  wanted  to  read  the  others  was  to  get  further 
proof.  All  this  she  made  plain  to  me,  eyeing  me 
a  little  anxiously  the  while,  and  of  course  I  accepted 
the  explanation.  Alan  is  the  biggest  child  of  them 
all,  and  I  doubt  not  that  she  thought  so,  but 
curiously  enough  her  views  of  him  are  among  the 
things  I  have  forgotten.  But  how  enamoured  she 
was  of  "  Treasure  Island,"  and  how  faithful  she 
tried  to  be  to  me  all  the  time  she  was  reading  it ! 
I  had  to  put  my  hands  over  her  eyes  to  let  her 
know  that  I  had  entered  the  room,  and  even  then 

312 


R.  L.  S. 

she  might  try  to  read  between  my  fingers,  coming 
to  herself  presently,  however,  to  say  "  It's  a  haver 
of  a  book." 

"Those  pirate  stories  are  so  uninteresting,"  I 
would  reply  without  fear,  for  she  was  too  engrossed 
to  see  through  me.  "  Do  you  think  you  will 
finish  this  one  ?  " 

"  I  may  as  well  go  on  with  it  since  I  have  be- 
gun it,"  my  mother  says,  so  slily  that  my  sister  and 
I  shake  our  heads  at  each  other  to  imply,  "  Was 
there  ever  such  a  woman !  " 

"  There  are  none  of  those  one-legged  scoundrels 
in  my  books,"  I  say. 

"  Better  without  them,"  she  replies  promptly. 

"  I  wonder,  mother,  what  it  is  about  the  man 
that  so  infatuates  the  public  ?  " 

"  He  takes  no  hold  of  me,"  she  insists.  "  I 
would  a  hantle  rather  read  your  books." 

I  offer  obligingly  to  bring  one  of  them  to  her, 
and  now  she  looks  at  me  suspiciously.  "You 
surely  believe  I  like  yours  best,"  she  says  with  in- 
stant anxiety,  and  I  soothe  her  by  assurances,  and 
retire  advising  her  to  read  on,  just  to  see  if  she  can 
find  out  how  he  misleads  the  public.  "  Oh,  I  may 
take  a  look  at  it  again  by  and  by,"  she  says  indif- 
ferently, but  nevertheless  the  probability  is  that  as 
the  door  shuts  the  book  opens,  as  if  by  some  me- 
chanical contrivance.  I  remember  how  she  read 
"  Treasure  Island,"  holding  it  close  to  the  ribs  of 

3*3 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

the  fire  (because  she  could  not  spare  a  moment  to 
rise  and  light  the  gas),  and  how,  when  bed-time 
came,  and  we  coaxed,  remonstrated,  scolded,  she 
said  quite  fiercely,  clinging  to  the  book,  "  I  dinnu. 
lay  my  head  on  a  pillow  this  night  till  I  see  how 
that  laddie  got  out  of  the  barrel." 

After  this,  I  think,  he  was  as  bewitching  as  the 
laddie  in  the  barrel  to  her — Was  he  not  always  a 
laddie  in  the  barrel  himself,  climbing  in  for  apples 
while  we  all  stood  around,  like  gamins,  waiting 
for  a  bite  *?  He  was  the  spirit  of  boyhood  tugging 
at  the  skirts  of  this  old  world  of  ours  and  com- 
pelling it  to  come  back  and  play.  And  I  suppose 
my  mother  felt  this,  as  so  many  have  felt  it :  like 
others,  she  was  a  little  scared  at  first  to  find  herself 
skipping  again,  with  this  masterful  child  at  the 
rope,  but  soon  she  gave  him  her  hand  and  set  off 
with  him  for  the  meadow,  not  an  apology  between 
the  two  of  them  for  the  author  left  behind.  But 
never  to  the  end  did  she  admit  (in  words)  that  he 
had  a  way  with  him  which  was  beyond  her  son. 
"Silk  and  sacking,  that  is  what  we  are,"  she  was 
informed,  to  which  she  would  reply  obstinately, 
"  Well,  then,  I  prefer  sacking." 

"  But  if  he  had  been  your  son  ?  " 

"  But  he  is  not." 

"  You  wish  he  were  *?  " 

"  I  dinna  deny  but  what  I  could  have  found 
room  for  him." 

3H 


R.  L.  S. 

And  still  at  times  she  would  smear  him  with 
the  name  of  black  (to  his  delight  when  he  learned 
the  reason).  That  was  when  some  podgy  red- 
sealed  blue-crossed  letter  arrived  from  Vailima, 
inviting  me  to  journey  thither.  (His  directions 
were,  "  You  take  the  boat  at  San  Francisco,  and 
then  my  place  is  the  second  to  the  left.")  Even 
London  seemed  to  her  to  carry  me  so  far  away 
that  I  often  took  a  week  to  the  journey  (the  first 
six  days  in  getting  her  used  to  the  idea),  and  these 
letters  terrified  her.  It  was  not  the  finger  of  Jim 
Hawkins  she  now  saw  beckoning  me  across  the 
seas,  it  was  John  Silver,  waving  a  crutch.  Seldom, 
I  believe,  did  I  read  straight  through  one  of  these 
Vailima  letters;  when  in  the  middle  I  suddenly 
remembered  who  was  upstairs  and  what  she  was 
probably  doing,  and  I  ran  to  her,  three  steps  at  a 
jump,  to  find  her,  lips  pursed,  hands  folded,  a  pic- 
ture of  gloom. 

"  I  have  a  letter  from " 

"  So  I  have  heard." 

"  Would  you  like  to  hear  it?" 

"No." 

"Can  you  not  abide  him1?" 

"  I  canna  thole  him." 

"Is  he  a  black?" 

"  He  is  all  that." 

Well,  Vailima  was  the  one  spot  on  earth  I  had 
any  great  craving  to  visit,  but  I  think  she  always 

3*5 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

knew  I  would  never  leave  her.  Sometime,  she 
said,  she  should  like  me  to  go,  but  not  until  she 
was  laid  away.  "And  how  small  I  have  grown 
this  last  winter.  Look  at  my  wrists.  It  canna  be 
long  now."  No,  I  never  thought  of  going,  was 
never  absent  for  a  day  from  her  without  reluc- 
tance, and  never  walked  so  quickly  as  when  I  was 
going  back.  In  the  meantime  that  happened 
which  put  an  end  for  ever  to  my  scheme  of  travel. 
I  shall  never  go  up  the  Road  of  Loving  Hearts 
now,  on  "a  wonderful  clear  night  of  stars,"  to 
meet  the  man  coming  toward  me  on  a  horse.  It 
is  still  a  wonderful  clear  night  of  stars,  but  the 
road  is  empty.  So  I  never  saw  the  dear  king  of 
us  all.  But  before  he  had  written  books  he  was 
in  my  part  of  the  country  with  a  fishing  wand  in 
his  hand,  and  I  like  to  think  that  I  was  the  boy 
who  met  him  that  day  by  Queen  Margaret's  burn, 
where  the  rowans  are,  and  busked  a  fly  for  him, 
and  stood  watching,  while  his  lithe  figure  rose  and 
fell  as  he  cast  and  hinted  back  from  the  crystal 
waters  of  Noran-side. 


316 


CHAPTER   VIII 

A   PANIC  IN  THE   HOUSE 

I  WAS  sitting  at  my  desk  in  London  when  a  tele- 
gram came  announcing  that  my  mother  was  again 
dangerously  ill,  and  I  seized  my  hat  and  hur- 
ried to  the  station.  It  is  not  a  memory  of  one 
night  only.  A  score  of  times,  I  am  sure,  I  was 
called  north  thus  suddenly,  and  reached  our  little 
town  trembling,  head  out  at  railway-carriage  win- 
dow for  a  glance  at  a  known  face  which  would 
answer  the  question  on  mine.  These  illnesses 
came  as  regularly  as  the  back-end  of  the  year,  but 
were  less  regular  in  going,  and  through  them  all, 
by  night  and  by  day,  I  see  my  sister  moving  so 
unwearyingly,  so  lovingly,  though  with  failing 
strength,  that  I  bow  my  head  in  reverence  for  her. 
She  was  wearing  herself  done.  The  doctor  ad- 
vised us  to  engage  a  nurse,  but  the  mere  word 
frightened  my  mother,  and  we  got  between  her 
and  the  door,  as  if  the  woman  was  already  on  the 
stair.  To  have  a  strange  woman  in  my  mother's 
room  —  you  who  are  used  to  them  cannot  con- 
ceive what  it  meant  to  us. 

317 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

Then  we  must  have  a  servant.  This  seemed 
only  less  horrible.  My  father  turned  up  his  sleeves 
and  clutched  the  besom.  I  tossed  aside  my  pa- 
pers, and  was  ready  to  run  the  errands.  He 
answered  the  door,  I  kept  the  fires  going,  he  gave 
me  a  lesson  in  cooking,  I  showed  him  how  to 
make  beds,  one  of  us  wore  an  apron.  It  was  not 
for  long.  I  was  led  to  my  desk,  the  newspaper 
was  put  into  my  father's  hand.  "  But  a  servant ! " 
we  cried,  and  would  have  fallen  to  again.  "  No 
servant  comes  into  this  house,"  said  my  sister 
quite  fiercely,  and,  oh,  but  my  mother  was  relieved 
to  hear  her.  There  were  many  such  scenes,  a 
year  of  them,  I  daresay,  before  we  yielded. 

I  cannot  say  which  of  us  felt  it  most.  In  Lon- 
don I  was  used  to  servants,  and  in  moments  of  ir- 
ritation would  ring  for  them  furiously,  though 
doubtless  my  manner  changed  as  they  opened  the 
door.  I  have  even  held  my  own  with  gentlemen 
in  plush,  giving  one  my  hat,  another  my  stick, 
and  a  third  my  coat,  and  all  done  with  little  more 
trouble  than  I  should  have  expended  in  putting 
the  three  articles  on  the  chair  myself  But  this 
bold  deed,  and  other  big  things  of  the  kind,  I  did 
that  I  might  tell  my  mother  of  them  afterwards, 
while  I  sat  on  the  end  of  her  bed,  and  her  face 
beamed  with  astonishment  and  mirth. 

From  my  earliest  days  I  had  seen  servants. 
The  manse  had  a  servant,  the  bank  had  another; 


A   PANIC   IN   THE   HOUSE 

one  of  their  uses  was  to  pounce  upon,  and  carry 
away  in  stately  manner,  certain  naughty  boys  who 
played  with  me.  The  banker  did  not  seem  really 
great  to  me,  but  his  servant  —  oh,  yes.  Her  boots 
cheeped  all  the  way  down  the  church  aisle;  it  was 
common  report  that  she  had  flesh  every  day  for 
her  dinner;  instead  of  meeting  her  lover  at  the 
pump,  she  walked  him  into  the  country,  and  he 
returned  with  wild  roses  in  his  buttonhole,  his 
hand  up  to  hide  them,  and  on  his  face  the  troubled 
look  of  those  who  know  that  if  they  take  this  lady 
they  must  give  up  drinking  from  the  saucer  for 
evermore.  For  the  lovers  were  really  common 
men  until  she  gave  them  that  glance  over  the 
shoulder  which,  I  have  noticed,  is  the  fatal  gift 
of  servants. 

According  to  legend  we  once  had  a  servant  — 
in  my  childhood  I  could  show  the  mark  of  it  on 
my  forehead,  and  even  point  her  out  to  other 
boys,  though  she  was  now  merely  a  wife  with  a 
house  of  her  own.  But  even  while  I  boasted  I 
doubted.  Reduced  to  life-size  she  may  have  been 
but  a  woman  who  came  in  to  help.  I  shall  say 
no  more  about  her  lest  some  one  comes  forward 
to  prove  that  she  went  home  at  night. 

Never  shall  I  forget  my  first  servant.  I  was 
eight  or  nine,  in  velveteen,  diamond  socks  ("Cross 
your  legs  when  they  look  at  you,"  my  mother  had 
said,  "and  put  your  thumb  in  your  pocket  and 

3'9 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

leave  the  top  of  your  handkerchief  showing"), 
and  I  had  travelled  by  rail  to  visit  a  relative.  He 
had  a  servant,  and  as  I  was  to  be  his  guest  she 
must  be  my  servant  also  for  the  time  being — you 
may  be  sure  I  had  got  my  mother  to  put  this 
plainly  before  me  ere  I  set  off.  My  relative  met 
me  at  the  station,  but  I  wasted  no  time  in  hoping 
I  found  him  well.  I  did  not  even  cross  my  legs 
for  him,  so  eager  was  I  to  hear  whether  she  was 
still  there.  A  sister  greeted  me  at  the  door,  but  I 
chafed  at  having  to  be  kissed ;  at  once  I  made  for 
the  kitchen,  where,  I  knew5  they  reside,  and  there 
she  was,  and  I  crossed  my  legs  and  put  one  thumb 
in  my  pocket,  and  the  handkerchief  was  showing. 
Afterwards  I  stopped  strangers  on  the  highway 
with  an  offer  to  show  her  to  them  through  the 
kitchen  window,  and  I  doubt  not  the  first  letter  I 
ever  wrote  told  my  mother  what  they  are  like 
when  they  are  so  near  that  you  can  put  your 
fingers  into  them. 

But  now  when  we  could  have  servants  for  our- 
selves I  shrank  from  the  thought.  It  would  not 
be  the  same  house;  we  should  have  to  dissem- 
ble ;  I  saw  myself  speaking  English  the  long  day 
through.  You  only  know  the  shell  of  a  Scot  un- 
til you  have  entered  his  home  circle ;  in  his  office, 
in  clubs,  at  social  gatherings  where  you  and  he 
seem  to  be  getting  on  so  well  he  is  really  a  house 
with  all  the  shutters  closed  and  the  door  locked. 


A  PANIC   IN   THE  HOUSE 

He  is  not  opaque  of  set  purpose,  often  it  is 
against  his  will  —  it  is  certainly  against  mine,  I 
try  to  keep  my  shutters  open  and  my  foot  in  the 
door,  but  they  will  bang  to.  In  many  ways  my 
mother  was  as  reticent  as  myself,  though  her  man- 
ners were  as  gracious  as  mine  were  rough  (in  vain, 
alas,  all  the  honest  oiling  of  them),  and  my  sister 
was  the  most  reserved  of  us  all;  you  might  at  times 
see  a  light  through  one  of  my  chinks :  she  was 
double-shuttered.  Now,  it  seems  to  be  a  law  of 
nature  that  we  must  show  our  true  selves  at  some 
time,  and  as  the  Scot  must  do  it  at  home,  and 
squeeze  a  day  into  an  hour,  what  follows  is  that 
there  he  is  self-revealing  in  the  superlative  degree, 
the  feelings  so  long  dammed  up  overflow,  and  thus 
a  Scotch  family  are  probably  better  acquainted 
with  each  other,  and  more  ignorant  of  the  life 
outside  their  circle,  than  any  other  family  in  the 
world.  And  as  knowledge  is  sympathy,  the  affec- 
tion existing  between  them  is  almost  painful  in  its 
intensity;  they  have  not  more  to  give  than  their 
neighbours,  but  it  is  bestowed  upon  a  few  instead 
of  being  distributed  among  many;  they  are  re- 
puted niggardly,  but  for  family  affection  at  least 
they  pay  in  gold.  In  this,  I  believe,  we  shall  find 
the  true  explanation  why  Scotch  literature,  since 
long  before  the  days  of  Burns,  has  been  so  often 
inspired  by  the  domestic  hearth  and  has  treated 
it  with  a  passionate  understanding. 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

Must  a  woman  come  into  our  house  and  dis- 
cover that  I  was  not  such  a  dreary  dog  as  I  had 
the  reputation  of  being?  Was  I  to  be  seen  at 
last  with  the  veil  of  dourness  lifted  ?  My  com- 
pany voice  is  so  low  and  unimpressive  that  my 
first  remark  is  merely  an  intimation  that  I  am 
about  to  speak  (like  the  whirr  of  the  clock  before 
it  strikes)  :  must  it  be  revealed  that  I  had  another 
voice,  that  there  was  one  door  I  never  opened 
without  leaving  my  reserve  on  the  mat?  Ah, 
that  room,  must  its  secrets  be  disclosed?  So 
joyous  they  were  when  my  mother  was  well,  no 
wonder  we  were  merry.  Again  and  again  she  had 
been  given  back  to  us ;  it  was  for  the  glorious  to- 
day we  thanked  God ;  in  our  hearts  we  knew  and 
in  our  prayers  confessed  that  the  fill  of  delight  had 
been  given  us,  whatever  might  befall.  We  had 
not  to  wait  till  all  was  over  to  know  its  value ; 
my  mother  used  to  say,  "  We  never  understand 
how  little  we  need  in  this  world  until  we  know  the 
loss  of  it,"  and  there  can  be  few  truer  sayings,  but 
during  her  last  years  we  exulted  daily  in  the  pos- 
session of  her  as  much  as  we  can  exult  in  her 
memory.  No  wonder,  I  say,  that  we  were  merry 
but  we  liked  to  show  it  to  God  alone,  and  to  Him 
only  our  agony  during  those  many  night-alarms, 
when  lights  flickered  in  the  house  and  white  faces 
were  round  my  mother's  bedside.  Not  for  other 
eyes  those  long  vigils  when,  night  about,  we  sat 

322 


A   PANIC   IN   THE   HOUSE 

watching,  nor  the  awful  nights  when  we  stood 
together,  teeth  clenched  —  waiting  —  it  must  be 
now.  And  it  was  not  then;  her  hand  became 
cooler,  her  breathing  more  easy ;  she  smiled  to  us. 
Once  more  I  could  work  by  snatches,  and  was 
glad,  but  what  was  the  result  to  me  compared  to 
the  joy  of  hearing  that  voice  from  the  other  room  ? 
There  lay  all  the  work  I  was  ever  proud  of,  the 
rest  is  but  honest  craftsmanship  done  to  give  her 
coal  and  food  and  softer  pillows.  My  thousand 
letters  that  she  so  carefully  preserved,  always  sleep- 
ing with  the  last  beneath  the  sheet,  where  one  was 
found  when  she  died  —  they  are  the  only  writing 
of  mine  of  which  I  shall  ever  boast.  I  would  not 
there  had  been  one  less  though  I  could  have  writ- 
ten an  immortal  book  for  it. 

How  my  sister  toiled  —  to  prevent  a  stranger's 
getting  any  footing  in  the  house !  And  how,  with 
the  same  object,  my  mother  strove  to  "  do  for  her- 
self" once  more.  She  pretended  that  she  was 
always  well  now,  and  concealed  her  ailments  so 
craftily  that  we  had  to  probe  for  them  : 

"I  think  you  are  not  feeling  well  to-day?" 

"  I  am  perfectly  well." 

"  Where  is  the  pain  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  pain  to  speak  of." 

"  Is  it  at  your  heart  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Is  your  breathing  hurting  you  ?  " 

323 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

"  Not  it." 

"  Do  you  feel  those  stounds  in  your  head  again  ?" 

"  No,  no,  I  tell  you  there  is  nothing  the  matter 
with  me." 

"  Have  you  a  pain  in  your  side  *?  " 

**  Really,  it's  most  provoking  I  canna  put  my 
hand  to  my  side  without  your  thinking  I  have  a 
pain  there." 

"  You  have  a  pain  in  your  side ! " 

"  I  might  have  a  pain  in  my  side." 

"And  you  are  trying  to  hide  it!  Is  it  very 
painful  <? " 

"  It's  —  it's  no  so  bad  but  what  I  can  bear  it." 

Which  of  these  two  gave  in  first  I  cannot  tell, 
though  to  me  fell  the  duty  of  persuading  them, 
for  whichever  she  was  she  rebelled  as  soon  as  the 
other  showed  signs  of  yielding,  so  that  sometimes 
I  had  two  converts  in  the  week,  but  never  both  on 
the  same  day.  I  would  take  them  separately,  and 
press  the  one  to  yield  for  the  sake  of  the  other, 
but  they  saw  so  easily  through  my  artifice.  My 
mother  might  go  bravely  to  my  sister  and  say, 
"I  have  been  thinking  it  over,  and  I  believe  I 
would  like  a  servant  fine  —  once  we  got  used  to 
her." 

"Did  he  tell  you  to  say  that?"  asks  my  sister 
sharply. 

"  I  say  it  of  my  own  free  will." 

"  He  put  you  up  to  it,  I  am  sure,  and  he  told 

324 


A   PANIC   IN   THE  HOUSE 

you  not  to  let  on  that  you  did  it  to  lighten  my 
work." 

**  Maybe  he  did,  but  I  think  we  should  get  one." 
"  Not  for  my  sake,"  says  my  sister  obstinately, 
and  then  my  mother  comes  ben  to  me  to  say  de- 
lightedly, "  She  winna  listen  to  reason ! " 

But  at  last  a  servant  was  engaged ;  we  might  be 
said  to  be  at  the  window,  gloomily  waiting  for  her 
now,  and  it  was  with  such  words  as  these  that  we 
sought  to  comfort  each  other  and  ourselves : 
"  She  will  go  early  to  her  bed." 
"  She  needna  often  be  seen  upstairs." 
'*  We'll  set  her  to  the  walking  every  day." 
"  There  will  be  a  many  errands  for  her  to  run. 
We'll  tell  her  to  take  her  time  over  them." 

**  Three  times  she  shall  go  to  the  kirk  every 
Sabbath,  and  we'll  egg  her  on  to  attending  the  lec- 
tures in  the  hall." 

"  She  is  sure  to  have  friends  in  the  town.  We'll 
let  her  visit  them  often." 

"  If  she  dares  to  come  into  your  room,  mother !  " 
"  Mind  this,  every  one  of  you,  servant  or  no 
servant,  I  fold  all  the  linen  mysel." 

"  She  shall  not  get  cleaning  out  the  east  room." 
"  Nor  putting  my  chest  of  drawers  in  order." 
"  Nor  tidying  up  my  manuscripts." 
"  I  hope  she's  a  reader,  though.     You  could  set 
her  down  with  a  book,  and  then  close  the  door 
canny  on  her." 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

And  so  on.  Was  ever  servant  awaited  so  ap- 
prehensively? And  then  she  came, — at  an  anxious 
time,  too,  when  her  worth  could  be  put  to  the 
proof  at  once, —  and  from  first  to  last  she  was  a 
treasure.  I  know  not  what  we  should  have  done 
without  her. 


326 


CHAPTER   IX 

MY   HEROINE 

WHEN  it  was  known  that  I  had  begun  another 
story  my  mother  might  ask  what  it  was  to  be 
about  this  time. 

"  Fine  we  can  guess  who  it  is  about,"  my  sister 
would  say  pointedly. 

"  Maybe  you  can  guess,  but  it  is  beyond  me," 
says  my  mother,  with  the  meekness  of  one  who 
knows  that  she  is  a  dull  person.  ; 

My  sister  scorned  her  at  such  times.  "What 
woman  is  in  all  his  books  *?  "  she  would  demand. 

"  I'm  sure  I  canna  say,"  replies  my  mother  de-1 
terminedly.  "  I  thought  the  women  were  different 
every  time." 

"  Mother,  I  wonder  you  can  be  so  audacious ! 
Fine  you  know  what  woman  I  mean." 

"How  can  I  know*?  What  woman  is  it?  You 
should  bear  in  mind  that  I  hinna  your  cleverness  " 
(they  were  constantly  giving  each  other  little 
knocks). 

"  I  won't  give  you  the  satisfaction  of  saying  her 
name.  But  this  I  will  say,  it  is  high  time  he  was 
keeping  her  out  of  his  books." 

327 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

And  then  as  usual  my  mother  would  give  her- 
self away  unconsciously.  "That  is  what  I  tell 
him,"  she  says,  chuckling,  "  and  he  tries  to  keep 
me  out,  but  he  canna;  it's  more  than  he  can  do! " 

On  an  evening  after  my  mother  had  gone  to 
bed,  the  first  chapter  would  be  brought  upstairs, 
and  I  read,  sitting  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  while 
my  sister  watched  to  make  my  mother  behave 
herself,  and  my  father  cried  H'sh!  when  there 
were  interruptions.  All  would  go  well  at  the 
start,  the  reflections  were  accepted  with  a  little 
nod  of  the  head,  the  descriptions  of  scenery  as  ruts 
on  the  road  that  must  be  got  over  at  a  walking 
pace  (my  mother  did  not  care  for  scenery,  and 
that  is  why  there  is  so  little  of  it  in  my  books). 
But  now  I  am  reading  too  quickly,  a  little  appre- 
hensively, because  I  know  that  the  next  paragraph 
begins  with  —  let  us  say  with,  "  Along  this  path 
came  a  woman  " :  I  had  intended  to  rush  on  here 
in  a  loud  bullying  voice,  but  "Along  this  path 
came  a  woman  "  I  read,  and  stop.  Did  I  hear  a 
faint  sound  from  the  other  end  of  the  bed  *?  Per- 
haps I  did  not ;  I  may  only  have  been  listening 
for  it,  but  I  falter  and  look  up.  My  sister  and  I 
look  sternly  at  my  mother.  She  bites  her  under- 
lip  and  clutches  the  bed  with  both  hands,  really 
she  is  doing  her  best  for  me,  but  first  comes  a 
smothered  gurgling  sound,  then  her  hold  on  her- 
self relaxes  and  she  shakes  with  mirth. 

3*8 


MY   HEROINE 

**  That's  a  way  to  behave ! "  cries  my  sister. 

"  I  cannot  help  it,"  my  mother  gasps. 

"  And  there's  nothing  to  laugh  at." 

"  It's  that  woman/'  my  mother  explains  unne- 
cessarily. 

"  Maybe  she's  not  the  woman  you  think  her," 
I  say,  crushed. 

"Maybe  not,"  says  my  mother  doubtfully. 
"  What  was  her  name  ?  " 

"  Her  name,"  I  answer  with  triumph,  "  was  not 
Margaret ;  "  but  this  makes  her  ripple  again.  "  I 
have  so  many  names  nowadays,"  she  mutters. 

"  H'sh ! "  says  my  father,  and  the  reading  is 
resumed. 

Perhaps  the  woman  who  came  along  the  path 
was  of  tall  and  majestic  figure,  which  should  have 
shown  my  mother  that  I  had  contrived  to  start  my 
train  without  her  this  time.  But  it  did  not. 

"  What  are  you  laughing  at  now  ? "  says  my 
sister  severely.  "  Do  you  not  hear  that  she  was  a 
tall,  majestic  woman  ?  " 

"  It's  the  first  time  I  ever  heard  it  said  of  her," 
replies  my  mother. 

"  But  she  is." 

"  Ke  fy,  havers  !  " 

"  The  book  says  it." 

"  There  will  be  a  many  queer  things  in  the 
book.  What  was  she  wearing  ?  " 

I  have  not  described  her  clothes.     "  That's  a 

329 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

mistake,"  says  my  mother.  "  When  I  come  up- 
on a  woman  in  a  book,  the  first  thing  I  want  to 
know  about  her  is  whether  she  was  good-looking, 
and  the  second,  how  she  was  put  on." 

The  woman  on  the  path  was  eighteen  years  of 
age,  and  of  remarkable  beauty. 

"  That  settles  you,"  says  my  sister. 

"  I  was  no  beauty  at  eighteen,"  my  mother  ad- 
mits, but  here  my  father  interferes  unexpectedly. 
"  There  wasna  your  like  in  this  countryside  at 
eighteen,"  says  he  stoutly. 

"  Pooh ! "  says  she,  well  pleased. 

"  Were  you  plain,  then  *?  "  we  ask. 

"  Sal,"  she  replies  briskly,  "  I  was  far  from  plain." 

"H'sh!" 

Perhaps  in  the  next  chapter  this  lady  (or  another) 
appears  in  a  carriage. 

"  I  assure  you  we're  mounting  in  the  world,"  I 
hear  my  mother  murmur,  but  I  hurry  on  without 
looking  up.  The  lady  lives  in  a  house  where 
there  are  footmen  —  but  the  footmen  have  come 
on  the  scene  too  hurriedly.  "This  is  more  than 
I  can  stand,"  gasps  my  mother,  and  just  as  she  is 
getting  the  better  of  a  fit  of  laughter,  "  Footman, 
give  me  a  drink  of  water,"  she  cries,  and  this  sets 
her  off  again.  Often  the  readings  had  to  end  ab- 
ruptly because  her  mirth  brought  on  violent  fits 
of  coughing. 

Sometimes  I  read  to  my  sister  alone,  and  she 

330 


MY   HEROINE 

assured  me  that  she  could  not  see  my  mother 
among  the  women  this  time.  This  she  said  to 
humour  me.  Presently  she  would  slip  upstairs  to 
announce  triumphantly,  "  You  are  in  again !  " 

Or  in  the  small  hours  I  might  make  a  confidant 
of  my  father,  and  when  I  had  finished  reading  he 
would  say  thoughtfully,  "  That  lassie  is  very 
natural.  Some  of  the  ways  you  say  she  had  — 
your  mother  had  them  just  the  same.  Did  you 
ever  notice  what  an  extraordinary  woman  your 
mother  is  ?  " 

Then  would  I  seek  my  mother  for  comfort. 
She  was  the  more  ready  to  give  it  because  of  her 
profound  conviction  that  if  I  was  found  out  — 
that  is,  if  readers  discovered  how  frequently  and  in 
how  many  guises  she  appeared  in  my  books — - 
the  affair  would  become  a  public  scandal. 

"  You  see  Jess  is  not  really  you,"  I  begin  in- 
quiringly. 

"  Oh,  no,  she  is  another  kind  of  woman  alto- 
gether," my  mother  says,  and  then  spoils  the  com- 
pliment by  adding  naively,  "She  had  but  two 
rooms  and  I  have  six." 

I  sigh.  "  Without  counting  the  pantry,  and 
it's  a  great  big  pantry,"  she  mutters. 

This  was  not  the  sort  of  difference  I  could 
greatly  plume  myself  upon,  and  honesty  would 
force  me  to  say,  "  As  far  as  that  goes,  there  was  a 
time  when  you  had  but  two  rooms  yourself " 

331 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

44  That's  long  since,"  she  breaks  in.  "  I  began 
with  an  up-the-stair,  but  I  always  had  it  in  my 
mind  —  I  never  mentioned  it,  but  there  it  was  — 
to  have  the  down-the-stair  as  well.  Ay,  and  I've 
had  it  this  many  a  year." 

44  Still,  there  is  no  denying  that  Jess  had  the 
same  ambition." 

44  She  had,  but  to  her  two-roomed  house  she  had 
to  stick  all  her  born  days.  Was  that  like  me  ?  " 

44  No,  but  she  wanted " 

44  She  wanted,  and  I  wanted,  but  I  got  and  she 
didna.  That's  the  difference  betwixt  her  and  me." 

44  If  that  is  all  the  difference,  it  is  little  credit  I 
can  claim  for  having  created  her." 

My  mother  sees  that  I  need  soothing.  44  That 
is  far  from  being  all  the  difference,"  she  would  say 
eagerly.  44  There's  my  silk,  for  instance.  Though 
I  say  it  mysel,  there's  not  a  better  silk  in  the  valley 
of  Strathmore.  Had  Jess  a  silk  of  any  kind  - 
not  to  speak  of  a  silk  like  that  ?  " 

44  Well,  she  had  no  silk,  but  you  remember  how 
she  got  that  cloak  with  beads." 

44 An  eleven  and  a  bit!  Hoots,  what  was  that 
to  boast  of!  I  tell  you,  every  single  yard  of  my 
silk  cost " 

44  Mother,  that  is  the  very  way  Jess  spoke  about 
her  cloak ! " 

She  lets  this  pass,  perhaps  without  hearing  it, 
for  solicitude  about  her  silk  has  hurried  her  to  the 
wardrobe  where  it  hangs. 

332 


MY   HEROINE 

"Ah,  mother,  I  am  afraid  that  was  very  like 
Jess ! " 

"  How  could  it  be  like  her  when  she  didna  even 
have  a  wardrobe  ?  I  tell  you  what,  if  there  had 
been  a  real  Jess  and  she  had  boasted  to  me  about 
her  cloak  with  beads,  I  would  have  said  to  her  in 
a  careless  sort  of  voice,  *  Step  across  with  me, 
Jess,  and  I'll  let  you  see  something  that  is  hang- 
ing in  my  wardrobe.'  That  would  have  lowered 
her  pride ! " 

"I  don't  believe  that  is  what  you  would  have 
done,  mother." 

Then  a  sweeter  expression  would  come  into  her 
face.  "  No,"  she  would  say  reflectively,  "  it's  not." 

44  What  would  you  have  done  *?  I  think  I 
know." 

"  You  canna  know.  But  I'm  thinking  I  would 
have  called  to  mind  that  she  was  a  poor  woman, 
and  ailing,  and  terrible  windy  about  her  cloak, 
and  I  would  just  have  said  it  was  a  beauty  and 
that  I  wished  I  had  one  like  it." 

"  Yes,  I  am  certain  that  is  what  you  would  have 
done.  But  oh,  mother,  that  is  just  how  Jess  would 
have  acted  if  some  poorer  woman  than  she  had 
shown  her  a  new  shawl." 

"  Maybe,  but  though  I  hadna  boasted  about  my 
silk  I  would  have  wanted  to  do  it" 

"  Just  as  Jess  would  have  been  fidgeting  to  show 
off  her  eleven  and  a  bit ! " 

It  seems  advisable  to  jump  to  another  book; 

333 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

not  to  my  first,  because  —  well,  as  it  was  my  first, 
there  would  naturally  be  something  of  my  mother 
in  it,  and  not  to  the  second,  as  it  was  my  first 
novel  and  not  much  esteemed  even  in  our  family. 
(But  the  little  touches  of  my  mother  in  it  are  not 
so  bad.)  Let  us  try  the  story  about  the  minister. 

My  mother's  first  remark  is  decidedly  damp- 
ing. "  Many  a  time  in  my  young  days,"  she  says, 
**  I  played  about  the  Auld  Licht  manse,  but  I  lit- 
tle thought  I  should  live  to  be  the  mistress  of  it !  " 

"  But  Margaret  is  not  you." 

"  N — no,  oh  no.  She  had  a  very  different  life 
from  mine.  I  never  let  on  to  a  soul  that  she 
is  me ! " 

"  She  was  not  meant  to  be  you  when  I  began. 
Mother,  what  a  way  you  have  of  coming  creep- 
ing in!" 

"You  should  keep  better  watch  on  yourself." 

"  Perhaps  if  I  had  called  Margaret  by  some 
other  name " 

"  I  should  have  seen  through  her  just  the  same. 
As  soon  as  I  heard  she  was  the  mother  I  began  to 
laugh.  In  some  ways,  though,  she's  no  so  very 
like  me.  She  was  long  in  finding  out  about  Bab- 
bie. I'se  uphaud  I  should  have  been  quicker." 

"Babbie,  you  see,  kept  close  to  the  garden  wall." 

"  It's  not  the  wall  up  at  the  manse  that  would 
have  hidden  her  from  me." 

"  She  came  out  in  the  dark." 

334 


"  I'm  thinking  she  would  have  found  me  look- 
ing for  her  with  a  candle." 

"And  Gavin  was  secretive." 

"That  would  have  put  me  on  my  mettle." 

"  She  never  suspected  anything." 

"  I  wonder  at  her." 

But  my  new  heroine  is  to  be  a  child.  What 
has  madam  to  say  to  that  *? 

A  child !  Yes,  she  has  something  to  say  even 
to  that.  "  This  beats  all ! "  are  the  words. 

"Come,  come,  mother,  I  see  what  you  are 
thinking,  but  I  assure  you  that  this  time " 

"  Of  course  not,"  she  said  soothingly,  "  oh,  no, 
she  canna  be  me ; "  but  anon  her  real  thoughts  are 
revealed  by  the  artless  remark,  "  I  doubt,  though, 
this  is  a  tough  job  you  have  on  hand  —  it  is  so 
long  since  I  was  a  bairn." 

We  came  very  close  to  each  other  in  those 
talks.  "  It  is  a  queer  thing,"  she  would  say  softly, 
"that  near  everything  you  write  is  about  this  bit 
place.  You  little  expected  that  when  you  began. 
I  mind  well  the  time  when  it  never  entered  your 
head,  any  more  than  mine,  that  you  could  write  a 
page  about  our  squares  and  wynds.  I  wonder 
how  it  has  come  about  ?  " 

There  was  a  time  when  I  could  not  have  an- 
swered that  question,  but  that  time  had  long 
passed.  "  I  suppose,  mother,  it  was  because  you 
were  most  at  home  in  your  own  town,  and  there 

335 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

was  never  much  pleasure  to  me  in  writing  of  peo- 
ple who  could  not  have  known  you,  nor  of  squares 
and  wynds  you  never  passed  through,  nor  of  a 
countryside  where  you  never  carried  your  father's 
dinner  in  a  flaggon.  There  is  scarce  a  house  in 
all  my  books  where  I  have  not  seemed  to  see  you 
a  thousand  times,  bending  over  the  fireplace  or 
winding  up  the  clock." 

44  And  yet  you  used  to  be  in  such  a  quandary 
because  you  knew  nobody  you  could  make  your 
women-folk  out  of!  Do  you  mind  that,  and  how 
we  both  laughed  at  the  notion  of  your  having  to 
make  them  out  of  me  ?  " 

44 1  remember." 

44  And  now  you've  gone  back  to  my  father's 
time.  It's  more  than  sixty  years  since  I  carried 
his  dinner  in  a  flaggon  through  the  long  parks  of 
Kinnordy." 

44 1  often  go  into  the  long  parks,  mother,  and  sit 
on  the  stile  at  the  edge  of  the  wood  till  I  fancy  I 
see  a  little  girl  coming  toward  me  with  a  flaggon 
in  her  hand." 

44  Jumping  the  burn  (I  was  once  so  proud  of 
my  jumps !)  and  swinging  the  flaggon  round  so 
quick  that  what  was  inside  hadna  time  to  fall  out 
I  used  to  wear  a  magenta  frock  and  a  white  pina- 
fore. Did  I  ever  tell  you  that  *?  " 

44  Mother,  the  little  girl  in  my  story  wears  a 
magenta  frock  and  a  white  pinafore." 

336 


MY   HEROINE 

44  You  minded  that !  But  I'm  thinking  it  wasna 
a  lassie  in  a  pinafore  you  saw  in  the  long  parks  of 
Kinnordy,  it  was  just  a  gey  done  auld  woman." 

"  It  was  a  lassie  in  a  pinafore,  mother,  when  she 
was  far  away,  but  when  she  came  near  it  was  a 
gey  done  auld  woman." 

"  And  a  fell  ugly  one ! " 

"  The  most  beautiful  one  I  shall  ever  see." 

"I  wonder  to  hear  you  say  it.  Look  at  my 
-wrinkled  auld  face." 

"  It  is  the  sweetest  face  in  all  the  world." 

"  See  how  the  rings  drop  off  my  poor  wasted 
finger." 

44  There  will  always  be  some  one  nigh,  mother, 
to  put  them  on  again." 

"  Ay,  will  there !  Well  I  know  it.  Do  you 
mind  how  when  you  were  but  a  bairn  you  used 
to  say,  4Wait  till  I'm  a  man,  and  you'll  never 
have  a  reason  for  greeting  again  *? ' " 

I  remembered. 

44  You  used  to  come  running  into  the  house  to 
say, 4  There's  a  proud  dame  going  down  the  Mary- 
wellbrae  in  a  cloak  that  is  black  on  one  side  and 
white  on  the  other ;  wait  till  I'm  a  man,  and  you'll 
have  one  the  very  same.'  And  when  I  lay  on 
gey  hard  beds  you  said,  4  When  I'm  a  man  you'll 
lie  on  feathers.'  You  saw  nothing  bonny,  you 
never  heard  of  my  setting  my  heart  on  anything, 
but  what  you  flung  up  your  head  and  cried, 

337 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

'Wait  till  I'm  a  man.'  You  fair  shamed  me 
before  the  neighbours,  and  yet  I  was  windy,  too. 
And  now  it  has  all  come  true  like  a  dream.  I  can 
call  to  mind  not  one  little  thing  I  ettled  for  in  my 
lusty  days  that  hasna  been  put  into  my  hands  in 
my  auld  age;  I  sit  here  useless,  surrounded  by 
the  gratification  of  all  my  wishes  and  all  my  am- 
bitions, and  at  times  I'm  near  terrified,  for  it's  as 
if  God  had  mista'en  me  for  some  other  woman.'' 

"  Your  hopes  and  ambitions  were  so  simple,"  I 
would  say,  but  she  did  not  like  that.  "  They 
werena  that  simple,"  she  would  answer,  flushing. 

I  am  reluctant  to  leave  those  happy  days,  but 
the  end  must  be  faced,  and  as  I  write  I  seem  to 
see  my  mother  growing  smaller  and  her  face  more 
wistful;  and  still  she  lingers  with  us,  as  if  God  had 
said,  "  Child  of  mine,  your  time  has  come,  be  not 
afraid,"  and  she  was  not  afraid,  but  still  she  lin- 
gered, and  He  waited,  smiling.  I  never  read  any 
of  that  last  book  to  her;  when  it  was  finished  she 
was  too  heavy  with  years  to  follow  a  story.  To 
me  this  was  as  if  my  book  must  go  out  cold  into 
the  world  (like  all  that  may  come  after  it  from 
me),  and  my  sister,  who  took  more  thought  for 
others  and  less  for  herself  than  any  other  human 
being  I  have  known,  saw  this,  and  by  some  means 
unfathomable  to  a  man  coaxed  my  mother  into 
being  once  again  the  woman  she  had  been.  On 
a  day  but  three  weeks  before  she  died  my  father 

338 


MY   HEROINE 

and  I  were  called  softly  upstairs.  My  mother  was 
sitting  bolt  upright,  as  she  loved  to  sit,  in  her  old 
chair  by  the  window,  with  a  manuscript  in  her 
hands.  But  she  was  looking  about  her  without 
much  understanding.  "Just  to  please  him,"  my 
sister  whispered,  and  then  in  a  low,  trembling 
voice  my  mother  began  to  read.  I  looked  at  my 
sister.  Tears  of  woe  were  stealing  down  her  face. 
Soon  the  reading  became  very  slow  and  stopped. 
After  a  pause,  "  There  was  something  you  were 
to  say  to  him,"  my  sister  reminded  her.  "Luck," 
muttered  a  voice  as  from  the  dead,  "  luck."  And 
then  the  old  smile  came  running  to  her  face  like 
a  lamp-lighter,  and  she  said  to  me,  "  I  am  ower 
far  gone  to  read,  but  I'm  thinking  I  am  in  it 
again!"  My  father  put  her  Testament  in  her 
hands,  and  it  fell  open — as  it  always  does  —  at 
the  Fourteenth  of  John.  She  made  an  effort  to 
read,  but  could  not.  Suddenly  she  stooped  and 
kissed  the  broad  page.  "  Will  that  do  instead  ?  " 
she  asked. 


CHAPTER  X 

ART  THOU  AFRAID   HIS   POWER   SHALL  FAIL? 

FOR  years  I  had  been  trying  to  prepare  myself 
for  my  mother's  death,  trying  to  foresee  how  she 
would  die,  seeing  myself  when  she  was  dead. 
Even  then  I  knew  it  was  a  vain  thing  I  did,  but  I 
am  sure  there  was  no  morbidness  in  it.  I  hoped 
I  should  be  with  her  at  the  end,  not  as  the  one  she 
looked  at  last,  but  as  him  from  whom  she  would 
turn  only  to  look  upon  her  best-beloved,  not  my 
arm  but  my  sister's  should  be  round  her  when  she 
died,  not  my  hand  but  my  sister's  should  close  her 
eyes.  I  knew  that  I  might  reach  her  too  late ;  I 
saw  myself  open  a  door  where  there  was  none  to 
greet  me,  and  go  up  the  old  stair  into  the  old 
room.  But  what  I  did  not  foresee  was  that  which 
happened.  I  little  thought  it  could  come  about 
that  I  should  climb  the  old  stair,  and  pass  the 
door  beyond  which  my  mother  lay  dead,  and  enter 
another  room  first,  and  go  on  my  knees  there. 

My  mother's  favourite  paraphrase  is  one  known 
in  our  house  as  David's  because  it  was  the  last  he 

340 


ART   THOU   AFRAID? 

learned  to  repeat.     It  was  also  the  last  thing  she 

read  — 

Art  thou  afraid  his  power  shall  fail 

When  comes  thy  evil  day? 
And  can  an  all-creating  arm 

Grow  weary  or  decay? 

I  heard  her  voice  gain  strength  as  she  read  it, 
I  saw  her  timid  face  take  courage,  but  when  came 
my  evil  day,  then  at  the  dawning,  alas  for  me,  I 
was  afraid. 

In  those  last  weeks,  though  we  did  not  know  it, 
my  sister  was  dying  on  her  feet.  For  many  years 
she  had  been  giving  her  life,  a  little  bit  at  a  time, 
for  another  year,  another  month,  latterly  for  another 
day,  of  her  mother,  and  now  she  was  worn  out. 
"I'll  never  leave  you,  mother." — "Fine  I  know 
you'll  never  leave  me."  I  thought  that  cry  so  pa- 
thetic at  the  time,  but  I  was  not  to  know  its  full 
significance  until  it  was  only  the  echo  of  a  cry. 
Looking  at  these  two,  then,  it  was  to  me  as  if  my 
mother  had  set  out  for  the  new  country,  and  my 
sister  held  her  back.  But  I  see  with  a  clearer 
vision  now.  It  is  no  longer  the  mother  but  the 
daughter  who  is  in  front,  and  she  cries,  "  Mother, 
you  are  lingering  so  long  at  the  end,  I  have  ill 
waiting  for  you." 

But  she  knew  no  more  than  we  how  it  was  to 
be ;  if  she  seemed  weary  when  we  met  her  on  the 
stair,  she  was  still  the  brightest,  the  most  active 

341 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

figure  in  my  mother's  room ;  she  never  com- 
plained, save  when  she  had  to  depart  on  that  walk 
which  separated  them  for  half  an  hour.  How  re- 
luctantly she  put  on  her  bonnet,  how  we  had  to 
press  her  to  it,  and  how  often,  having  gone  as  far 
as  the  door,  she  came  back  to  stand  by  my  mother's 
side.  Sometimes,  as  we  watched  from  the  window, 
I  could  not  but  laugh,  and  yet  with  a  pain  at  my 
heart,  to  see  her  hasting  doggedly  onward,  not  an 
eye  for  right  or  left,  nothing  in  her  head  but  the 
return.  There  was  always  my  father  in  the  house, 
than  whom  never  was  a  more  devoted  husband, 
and  often  there  were  others,  one  daughter  in  par- 
ticular, but  they  scarce  dared  tend  my  mother  — 
this  one  snatched  the  cup  jealously  from  their 
hands.  My  mother  liked  it  best  from  her.  We 
all  knew  this.  "  I  like  them  fine,  but  I  canna  do 
without  you."  My  sister,  so  unselfish  in  all  other 
things,  had  an  unwearying  passion  for  parading  it 
before  us.  It  was  the  rich  reward  of  her  life. 

The  others  spoke  among  themselves  of  what 
must  come  soon,  and  they  had  tears  to  help  them, 
but  this  daughter  would  not  speak  of  it,  and  her 
tears  were  ever  slow  to  come.  I  knew  that  night 
and  day  she  was  trying  to  get  ready  for  a  world 
without  her  mother  in  it,  but  she  must  remain 
dumb,  none  of  us  was  so  Scotch  as  she,  she  must 
bear  her  agony  alone — a  tragic,  solitary  Scotch- 
woman. Even  my  mother,  who  spoke  so  calmly  to 

342 


ART   THOU   AFRAID? 

us  of  the  coming  time,  could  not  mention  it  to  her. 
These  two,  the  one  in  bed,  and  the  other  bending 
over  her,  could  only  look  long  at  each  other,  un- 
til slowly  the  tears  came  to  my  sister's  eyes,  and 
then  my  mother  would  turn  away  her  wet  face.  And 
still  neither  said  a  word,  each  knew  so  well  what 
was  in  the  other's  thoughts,  so  eloquently  they 
spoke  in  silence,  "  Mother,  I  am  loath  to  let  you 
go,  and  "  Oh,  my  daughter,  now  that  my  time  is 
near,  I  wish  you  werena  quite  so  fond  of  me." 
But  when  the  daughter  had  slipped  away  my  mother 
would  grip  my  hand  and  cry,  "  I  leave  her  to  you; 
you  see  how  she  has  sown,  it  will  depend  on  you 
how  she  is  to  reap."  And  I  made  promises,  but 
I  suppose  neither  of  us  saw  that  she  had  already 
reaped. 

In  the  night  my  mother  might  waken  and  sit 
up  in  bed,  confused  by  what  she  saw.  While  she 
slept,  six  decades  or  more  had  rolled  back  and  she 
was  again  in  her  girlhood;  suddenly  recalled  from  it 
she  was  dizzy,  as  with  the  rush  of  the  years.  How 
had  she  come  into  this  room  ?  When  she  went  to 
bed  last  night,  after  preparing  her  father's  supper, 
there  had  been  a  dresser  at  the  window:  what  had 
become  of  the  salt-bucket,  the  meal-tub,  the  hams 
that  should  be  hanging  from  the  rafters  ?  There 
were  no  rafters;  it  was  a  papered  ceiling.  She 
had  often  heard  of  open  beds,  but  how  came  she 
to  be  lying  in  one  *?  To  fathom  these  things  she 

343 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

would  try  to  spring  out  of  bed,  and  be  startled  to 
find  it  a  labour,  as  if  she  had  been  taken  ill  in  the 
night.  Hearing  her  move  I  might  knock  on  the 
wall  that  separated  us,  this  being  a  sign,  prearranged 
between  us,  that  I  was  near  by,  and  so  all  was  well, 
but  sometimes  the  knocking  seemed  to  belong  to 
the  past,  and  she  would  cry,  "  That  is  my  father 
chapping  at  the  door,  I  maun  rise  and  let  him  in." 
She  seemed  to  see  him  —  and  it  was  one  much 
younger  than  herself  that  she  saw  —  covered  with 
snow,  kicking  clods  of  it  from  his  boots,  his  hands 
swollen  and  chapped  with  sand  and  wet.  Then  I 
would  hear  —  it  was  a  common  experience  of  the 
night —  my  sister  soothing  her  lovingly,  and  turn- 
ing up  the  light  to  show  her  where  she  was,  help- 
ing her  to  the  window  to  let  her  see  that  it  was  no 
night  of  snow,  even  humouring  her  by  going 
downstairs,  and  opening  the  outer  door,  and  call- 
ing into  the  darkness,  "  Is  anybody  there  *?  "  and 
if  that  was  not  sufficient,  she  would  swaddle  my 
mother  in  wraps  and  take  her  through  the  rooms 
of  the  house,  lighting  them  one  by  one,  pointing 
out  familiar  objects,  and  so  guiding  her  slowly 
through  the  sixty  odd  years  she  had  jumped  too 
quickly.  And  perhaps  the  end  of  it  was  that  my 
mother  came  to  my  bedside  and  said  wistfully, 
"  Am  I  an  auld  woman  ?  " 

But  with  daylight,  even  during  the  last  week  in 
which  I  saw  her,  she  would  be  up  and  doing,  for 

344 


ART   THOU   AFRAID? 

though  pitifully  frail  she  no  longer  suffered  from 
any  ailment.  She  seemed  so  well  comparatively 
that  I,  having  still  the  remnants  of  an  illness  to 
shake  off,  was  to  take  a  holiday  in  Switzerland, 
and  then  return  for  her,  when  we  were  all  to  go  to 
the  much-loved  manse  of  her  much-loved  brother 
in  the  west  country.  So  she  had  many  prepara- 
tions on  her  mind,  and  the  morning  was  the  time 
when  she  had  any  strength  to  carry  them  out.  To 
leave  her  house  had  always  been  a  month's  work 
for  her,  it  must  be  left  in  such  perfect  order,  every 
corner  visited  and  cleaned  out,  every  chest  probed 
to  the  bottom,  the  linen  lifted  out,  examined  and 
put  back  lovingly  as  if  to  make  it  lie  more  easily 
in  her  absence,  shelves  had  to  be  repapered,  a 
strenuous  week  devoted  to  the  garret.  Less  ex- 
haustively, but  with  much  of  the  old  exultation  in 
her  house,  this  was  done  for  the  last  time,  and  then 
there  was  the  bringing  out  of  her  own  clothes, 
and  the  spreading  of  them  upon  the  bed  and  the 
pleased  fingering  of  them,  and  the  consultations 
about  which  should  be  left  behind.  Ah,  beautiful 
dream!  I  clung  to  it  every  morning;  I  would  not 
look  when  my  sister  shook  her  head  at  it,  but  long 
before  each  day  was  done,  I  too  knew  that  it  could 
never  be.  It  had  come  true  many  times,  but  never 
again.  We  two  knew  it,  but  when  my  mother, 
who  must  always  be  prepared  so  long  beforehand, 
called  for  her  trunk  and  band-boxes  we  brought 

34* 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

them  to  her,  and  we  stood  silent,  watching,  while 
she  packed. 

The  morning  came  when  I  was  to  go  away.  It 
had  come  a  hundred  times,  when  I  was  a  boy, 
when  I  was  an  undergraduate,  when  I  was  a  man, 
when  she  had  seemed  big  and  strong  to  me,  when 
she  was  grown  so  little  and  it  was  I  who  put  my 
arms  round  her.  But  always  it  was  the  same 
scene.  I  am  not  to  write  about  it,  of  the  parting 
and  the  turning  back  on  the  stair,  and  two  people 
trying  to  smile,  and  the  setting  off  again,  and  the 
cry  that  brought  me  back.  Nor  shall  I  say  more 
of  the  silent  figure  in  the  background,  always  in 
the  background,  always  near  my  mother.  The 
last  I  saw  of  these  two  was  from  the  gate.  They 
were  at  the  window  which  never  passes  from  my 
eyes.  I  could  not  see  my  dear  sister's  face,  for 
she  was  bending  over  my  mother,  pointing  me 
out  to  her,  and  telling  her  to  wave  her  hand  and 
smile,  because  I  liked  it  so.  That  action  was  an 
epitome  of  my  sister's  life. 

I  had  been  gone  a  fortnight  when  the  telegram 
was  put  into  my  hands.  I  had  got  a  letter  from 
my  sister,  a  few  hours  before,  saying  that  all  was 
well  at  home.  The  telegram  said  in  five  words 
that  she  had  died  suddenly  the  previous  night. 
There  was  no  mention  of  my  mother,  and  I  was 
three  days'  journey  from  home. 

The  news  I  got  on  reaching  London  was  this : 

346 


ART   THOU   AFRAID? 

my  mother  did  not  understand  that  her  daughtei 
was  dead,  and  they  were  waiting  for  me  to  tell 
her. 

I  need  not  have  been  such  a  coward.  This  is 
how  these  two  died  —  for,  after  all,  I  was  too  late 
by  twelve  hours  to  see  my  mother  alive. 

Their  last  night  was  almost  gleeful.  In  the  old 
days  that  hour  before  my  mother's  gas  was  lowered 
had  so  often  been  the  happiest  that  my  pen  steals 
back  to  it  again  and  again  as  I  write :  it  was  the 
time  when  my  mother  lay  smiling  in  bed  and  we 
were  gathered  round  her  like  children  at  play,  our 
reticence  scattered  on  the  floor  or  tossed  in  sport 
from  hand  to  hand,  the  author  become  so  boister- 
ous that  in  the  pauses  they  were  holding  him  in 
check  by  force.  Rather  woful  had  been  some 
attempts  latterly  to  renew  those  evenings,  when 
my  mother  might  be  brought  to  the  verge  of  them, 
as  if  some  familiar  echo  called  her,  but  where  she 
was  she  did  not  clearly  know,  because  the  past 
was  roaring  in  her  ears  like  a  great  sea.  But  this 
night  was  the  last  gift  to  my  sister.  The  joyous- 
ness  of  their  voices  drew  the  others  in  the  house 
upstairs,  where  for  more  than  an  hour  my  mother 
was  the  center  of  a  merry  party  and  so  clear  of 
mental  eye  that  they,  who  were  at  first  cautious, 
abandoned  themselves  to  the  sport,  and  whatever 
they  said,  by  way  of  humourous  rally,  she  instantly 

347 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

capped  as  of  old,  turning  their  darts  against  them- 
selves until  in  self-defence  they  were  three  to  one, 
and  the  three  hard  pressed.  How  my  sister  must 
have  been  rejoicing !  Once  again  she  could  cry, 
"  Was  there  ever  such  a  woman ! "  They  tell  me 
that  such  a  happiness  was  on  the  daughter's  face 
that  my  mother  commented  on  it,  that  having 
risen  to  go  they  sat  down  again,  fascinated  by  the 
radiance  of  these  two.  And  when  eventually  they 
went,  the  last  words  they  heard  were,  "  They  are 
gone,  you  see,  mother,  but  I  am  here,  I  will  never 
leave  you,"  and  "  Na,  you  winna  leave  me ;  fine  I 
know  that."  For  some  time  afterwards  their  voices 
could  be  heard  from  downstairs,  but  what  they 
talked  of  is  not  known.  And  then  came  silence. 
Had  I  been  at  home  I  should  have  been  in  the 
room  again  several  times,  turning  the  handle  of  the 
door  softly,  releasing  it  so  that  it  did  not  creak,  and 
standing  looking  at  them.  It  had  been  so  a  thou- 
sand times.  But  that  night,  would  I  have  slipped 
out  again,  mind  at  rest,  or  should  I  have  seen  the 
change  coming  while  they  slept  *? 

Let  it  be  told  in  the  fewest  words.  My  sister 
awoke  next  morning  with  a  headache.  She  had 
always  been  a  martyr  to  headaches,  but  this  one, 
like  many  another,  seemed  to  be  unusually  severe. 
Nevertheless  she  rose  and  lit  my  mother's  fire  and 
brought  up  her  breakfast,  and  then  had  to  return 
to  bed.  She  was  not  able  to  write  her  daily  letter 

348 


ART   THOU   AFRAID? 

to  me,  saying  how  my  mother  was,  and  almost  the 
last  thing  she  did  was  to  ask  my  father  to  write  it, 
and  not  to  let  on  that  she  was  ill,  as  it  would  dis- 
tress me.  The  doctor  was  called,  but  she  rapidly 
became  unconscious.  In  this  state  she  was  re- 
moved from  my  mother's  bed  to  another.  It  was 
discovered  that  she  was  suffering  from  an  internal 
disease.  No  one  had  guessed  it.  She  herself 
never  knew.  Nothing  could  be  done.  In  this 
unconsciousness  she  passed  away,  without  know- 
ing that  she  was  leaving  her  mother.  Had  I 
known,  when  I  heard  of  her  death,  that  she  had 
been  saved  that  pain,  surely  I  could  have  gone 
home  more  bravely  with  the  words, 

Art  thou  afraid  his  power  shall  fail 
When  comes  thy  evil  day  ? 

Ah,  you  would  think  so,  I  should  have  thought 
so,  but  I  know  myself  now.  When  I  reached 
London  I  did  hear  how  my  sister  died,  but  still  I 
was  afraid.  I  saw  myself  in  my  mother's  room 
telling  her  why  the  door  of  the  next  room  was 
locked,  and  I  was  afraid.  God  had  done  so  much, 
and  yet  I  could  not  look  confidently  to  Him  for 
the  little  that  was  left  to  do.  "  O  ye  of  little  faith ! " 
These  are  the  words  I  seem  to  hear  my  mother 
saying  to  me  now,  and  she  looks  at  me  so  sor- 
rowfully. 

He  did  it  very  easily,  and  it  has  ceased  to  seem 

349 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

marvellous  to  me  because  i.t  was  so  plainly  His 
doing.  My  timid  mother  saw  the  one  who  was 
never  to  leave  her  carried  unconscious  from  the 
room,  and  she  did  not  break  down.  She  who  used 
to  wring  her  hands  if  her  daughter  was  gone  for 
a  moment  never  asked  for  her  again,  they  were 
afraid  to  mention  her  name ;  an  awe  fell  upon 
them.  But  I  am  sure  they  need  not  have  been  so 
anxious.  There  are  mysteries  in  life  and  death, 
Hut  this  was  not  one  of  them.  A  child  can  under- 
stand what  happened.  God  said  that  my  sister 
must  come  first,  but  He  put  His  hand  on  my 
mother's  eyes  at  that  moment  and  she  was  altered. 

They  told  her  that  I  was  on  my  way  home,  and 
she  said  with  a  confident  smile,  "  He  will  come  as 
quick  as  trains  can  bring  him."  That  is  my  re- 
ward, that  is  what  I  have  got  for  my  books.  Every- 
thing I  could  do  for  her  in  this  life  I  have  done 
since  I  was  a  boy ;  I  look  back  through  the  years 
and  I  cannot  see  the  smallest  thing  left  undone. 

They  were  buried  together  on  my  mother's 
seventy-sixth  birthday,  though  there  had  been 
three  days  between  their  deaths.  On  the  last  day, 
my  mother  insisted  on  rising  from  bed  and  going 
through  the  house.  The  arms  that  had  so  often 
helped  her  on  that  journey  were  now  cold  in  death, 
but  there  were  others  only  less  loving,  and  she 
went  slowly  from  room  to  room  like  one  bidding 
good-bye,  and  in  mine  she  said,  "  The  beautiful 

350 


ART   THOU   AFRAID? 

rows  upon  rows  of  books,  and  he  said  every  one 
of  them  was  mine,  all  mine ! "  and  in  the  east 
room,  which  was  her  greatest  triumph,  she  said 
caressingly,  "  My  nain  bonny  room  ! "  All  this 
time  there  seemed  to  be  something  that  she  wanted, 
but  the  one  was  dead  who  always  knew  what  she 
wanted,  and  they  produced  many  things  at  which 
she  shook  her  head.  They  did  not  know  then 
that  she  was  dying,  but  they  followed  her  through 
the  house  in  some  apprehension,  and  after  she  re- 
turned to  bed  they  saw  that  she  was  becoming 
very  weak.  Once  she  said  eagerly,  "  Is  that  you, 
David  ? "  and  again  she  thought  she  heard  her 
father  knocking  the  snow  off  his  boots.  Her  de- 
sire for  that  which  she  could  not  name  came  back 
to  her,  and  at  last  they  saw  that  what  she  wanted 
was  the  old  christening  robe.  It  was  brought  to  her, 
and  she  unfolded  it  with  trembling,  exultant  hands, 
and  when  she  had  made  sure  that  it  was  still  of 
virgin  fairness  her  old  arms  went  round  it  ador- 
ingly, and  upon  her  face  there  was  the  ineffable 
mysterious  glow  of  motherhood.  Suddenly  she 
said,  "  Wha's  bairn's  dead  ?  is  a  bairn  of  mine 
dead  ?  "  but  those  watching  dared  not  speak,  and 
then  slowly  as  if  with  an  effort  of  memory  she  re- 
peated our  names  aloud  in  the  order  in  which  we 
were  born.  Only  one,  who  should  have  come 
third  among  the  ten,  did  she  omit,  the  one  in  the 
next  room,  but  at  the  end,  after  a  pause,  she  said 

351 


MARGARET   OGILVY 

her  name  and  repeated  it  again  and  again  and 
again,  lingering  over  it  as  if  it  were  the  most 
exquisite  music  and  this  her  dying  song.  And 
yet  it  was  a  very  commonplace  name. 

They  knew  now  that  she  was  dying.  She  told 
them  to  fold  up  the  christening  robe  and  almost 
sharply  she  watched  them  put  it  away,  and  then  for 
some  time  she  talked  of  the  long  lovely  life  that 
had  been  hers,  and  of  Him  to  whom  she  owed  it. 
She  said  good-bye  to  them  all,  and  at  last  turned 
her  face  to  the  side  where  her  best-beloved  had  lain, 
and  for  over  an  hour  she  prayed.  They  only 
caught  the  words  now  and  again,  and  the  last  they 
heard  were  "  God  "  and  "  love."  I  think  God  was 
smiling  when  He  took  her  to  Him,  as  He  had  so 
often  smiled  at  her  during  those  seventy-six  years. 

I  saw  her  lying  dead,  and  her  face  was  beautiful 
and  serene.  But  it  was  the  other  room  I  entered 
first,  and  it  was  by  my  sister's  side  that  I  fell  upon 
my  knees.  The  rounded  completeness  of  a  woman's 
life  that  was  my  mother's  had  not  been  for  her. 
She  would  not  have  it  at  the  price.  "  I'll  never 
leave  you,  mother."  —  "  Fine  I  know  you'll  never 
leave  me."  The  fierce  joy  of  loving  too  much,  it 
is  a  terrible  thing.  My  sister's  mouth  was  firmly 
closed,  as  if  she  had  got  her  way. 

And  now  I  am  left  without  them,  but  I  trust 
my  memory  will  ever  go  back  to  those  happy  days, 
not  to  rush  through  them,  but  dallying  here  and 

3P 


ART   THOU   AFRAID? 

there,  even  as  my  mother  wanders  through  my 
books.  And  if  I  also  live  to  a  time  when  age  must 
dim  my  mind  and  the  past  comes  sweeping  back 
like  the  shades  of  night  over  the  bare  road  of  the 
present,  it  will  not,  I  believe,  be  my  youth  I  shall 
see  but  hers,  not  a  boy  clinging  to  his  mother's 
skirt  and  crying,  "  Wait  till  I'm  a  man,  and  you'll 
lie  on  feathers,"  but  a  little  girl  in  a  magenta  frock 
and  a  white  pinafore,  who  comes  toward  me 
through  the  long  parks,  singing  to  herself,  and 
carrying  her  father's  dinner  in  a  flaggon. 


353 


:    >. 


MAR  1 8  1986 


University  of  California 

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